KNOX
She had paint under her fingernails.
Not the shop paint — this was something else, something she'd done since the preschool, some project she'd started when the kids were finally asleep and she'd needed to do something with her hands. I noticed it when I sat down across from her on the warehouse curb and she put her hands flat on her knees.
The nails on her right hand were slightly elongated. Just slightly. Enough.
"Your wolf came out," I said.
"I don't have a wolf."
I looked at her hands.
She looked at her hands.
Grayson was fifteen feet away with both twins, producing snacks from some bag he'd apparently brought as a matter of policy — juice boxes and granola bars and what appeared to be emergency fruit snacks. Hunter was eating with the focused efficiency of a child who has
