CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
In the hallway of Haven House the next morning, Freya slipped into her wellies. Her Parka felt dry against her skin and strange, as though she shouldn’t be wearing it. It was a moment before she slid it over her arms and zipped it up to her chest.
She had to know the truth of George’s story, to verify what had happened to those boys in the tunnel, if not for peace of mind then to sate her own curiosity. There could be no peace of mind, not while she still belonged to the village. There was only her hunger, which she knew would never end. Eaton paced around her legs, his tail wagging, anticipation shining in his eyes. She thought he looked sad. As she attached the leash to his collar, she wondered about the emotional capacity of the dog. Was he really sad? Or was she
