Marked Before Memory: The Werewolves of Billings Montana Series Book Four

Ava Evergreen, Pennsylvania. The town that filed her disappearance as a runaway. The town that let Kaleb walk free. The town that never asked what happened to Aelia Elizabeth White. She stood across from the mural. Her face—before the name change, before the silence—was painted in fading strokes. Ivy crept across the edges. The eyes were still hers. Ian waited behind her, quiet. Not distant. Not protective. Just present. She crossed the street. The diner door opened with a groan. Same booths. Same counter. Same sheriff, three seats from the end. No one looked up. But everyone saw her. She didn’t sit. She walked to the bulletin board behind the coffee machine. Missing persons. Three names. None of them hers. Not Ava Klein. Not Aelia White. Just absence. “Can I help you?” the waitress asked. “I’m looking for the mural artist,” Ava said. The waitress blinked. Twice. Then I looked away. “That was years ago,” she said. “Before the girl went missing.” “She didn’t go missing,” Ava replied. “She was taken.” The sheriff turned. Slow. Measured. “That case is closed,” he said. “It was never opened.” She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t ask permission. She walked out. The frost pulsed once beneath her boots. The mural shimmered in the window’s reflection. Ian followed. Evergreen didn’t stop her. It never had. She didn’t speak until they reached the mural. Ian stayed behind her, half a step. Not guarding. Not guiding. Just there. The paint had faded, but the shape of her face remained. The eyes were hers. The jawline. The scar above her left brow—barely visible, but present. Someone remembered. Someone had painted her before the town decided she was gone. “They didn’t erase me,” she said. “They buried me.” Ian didn’t answer. She stepped closer. The ivy curled around the edges like it was trying to protect the image. Or hide it. A name was scratched into the corner. Not Ava. Not Aelia. Just a signature: M. White. Her mother. She reached out, fingertips grazing the wall. The frost pulsed beneath her boots. The terrain didn’t echo. It held. --- She turned toward the church. The bell rang once. Not for service. For memory. She didn’t go inside. She didn’t need to. The pews had never held her. The altar had never named her. But the floorboards remembered. She walked the perimeter of the building, tracing the foundation with her steps. Ian followed, silent. Behind the church, a plaque listed the town’s founding families. White was missing. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t cry. She took out a marker from her coat pocket and wrote it in the margin. White. Not as vandalism. As correction. She didn’t speak as they walked past the school. The playground was empty. The swings moved without wind. The slide was rusted at the base, like it had been waiting for someone to return and name it dangerous. She had scraped her knee here once. Her mother had carried her home. Kaleb had erased that memory with a new name and a new town. But the terrain hadn’t been forgotten. The frost pulsed beneath the mulch. Ian slowed beside her. “You okay?” “I remember this place,” she said. “But not as Ava.” She stepped through the broken gate. The mural had been painted on the school’s west wall. Not commissioned. Not approved. Just left there by someone who knew she’d come back. She traced the edge of the paint with her fingers. The ivy had grown thicker here. Protective. Intentional. “My mother signed it,” she said. “M. White.” Ian didn’t ask how she knew. She just did. --- They walked the perimeter of the school in silence. Behind the gym, a maintenance shed leaned against the fence. The door was padlocked, but the frost pulsed beneath it. Ava knelt. The ground was soft. Not from rain. From memory. She brushed aside the leaves. A buried box. Metal. Rusted. She opened it. Inside: a photograph. A birth certificate. A note. Aelia—if you find this, remember who you are. She didn’t cry. She didn’t speak. She stood. “We’re not done here,” she said. Ian nodded. The terrain pulsed once. Then stilled. She carried the box like it weighed more than it should. Not because it was heavy. Because it was hers. The photograph was creased at the edges. Her mother’s handwriting on the back: Aelia, age five. Evergreen Park. The birth certificate was real. Not doctored. Not redacted. The note was short. Just enough. Aelia—if you find this, remember who you are. She didn’t cry. She didn’t speak. She walked. --- The sheriff’s office was colder than the frost outside. Ian stayed by the door. Ava stepped forward, box in hand. The sheriff looked up. His face didn’t change. “You again.” “Me always,” she said. She placed the box on the counter. “This is the file you never opened.” He didn’t reach for it. “That’s not admissible.” “It’s not for court,” she said. “It’s for memory.” He hesitated. Then opened the lid. The photograph stared back at him. The birth certificate glared. The note pulsed. He didn’t speak. She did. “You filed me as a runaway.” “We were told—” “You were told to forget.” She turned. Ian followed. The frost pulsed once beneath the threshold. The terrain didn’t echo. It held. She didn’t return to the motel. She walked. Past the library that never carried her name. Past the park bench where her mother once braided her hair. Past the corner store where Kaleb bought bleach the night he changed her name. The terrain pulsed beneath each step. Not in recognition. In judgment. --- The mural shimmered in the moonlight. She stood before it again, box in hand. The photograph. The birth certificate. The note. She placed them at the base of the wall. Not as offering. As archive. Ian stood behind her, silent. “They buried me,” she said. “But they couldn’t unmark me.” She traced the edge of the mural with her fingers. The paint flaked. The ivy curled tighter. The frost thickened. --- A voice broke the silence. “You shouldn’t be here.” She turned. An old man. Gray coat. Shaking hands. Eyes that didn’t flinch. “You knew her,” Ava said. “I painted her.” “You painted me.” He nodded. “They told me to stop. Said she was gone. Said it was dangerous.” “It was.” “I did it anyway.” She didn’t thank him. She didn’t need to. She handed him the box. He opened it. He wept. Not loudly. Just enough. --- The frost pulsed once. The mural held. The town didn’t speak. But the terrain did. And Ava stayed. Not to be welcomed. To be remembered.