RUNNING WITH THE WEREWOLF

DELETED SCENE, Unedited

This was the original Chapter 2, right after the scene with Travis in the attorney’s office.

© 2025 by Laurie London

 

Daphne

When I die, I probably wouldn’t have any regrets about books I hadn’t read. (I’m an avid reader and the proud owner of two well-used library cards.) But it was possible I’d have regrets about not reading books that hadn’t been written yet. Masterpieces like: What to Expect When You’re in Danger, How to Survive When Your Boss Wants You Dead, or the all-important How To Make a Living While You’re on the Run.

I sighed wistfully and stirred the bath bomb mixture I was making with a wire whisk. Reaching for my favorite spoon to fill the molds, I realized I’d forgotten it at home. Dang it. Going back for it wasn’t an option. Not a healthy one, that is.

Although Bettina wouldn’t care that I was hiding out in her apartment, it didn’t stop me from feeling a little guilty about it. She’d asked me to water her plants while she and her boyfriend backpacked around Europe, not crash on her couch indefinitely. I’d texted her after I got here last night, but I still hadn’t heard back. Part of me wondered if she was irritated and didn’t know how to respond, but another part knew she wasn’t checking her phone very often on account of her limited data plan while traveling.

As I rummaged in her kitchen, a warm furry body brushed against my leg. But before I could pull away, sharp teeth bit into my baby toe.

I stumbled backwards. “Ouch, George!”

The large black cat with white mittens looked up me, but I’d learned the hard way not to be deceived by his extreme cuteness. His expression said, ‘You think I care that hurts? Feed me now or there will be hell to pay.’

When George had turned up on my doorstep several years ago, battered and bruised, he was a tom-cat. I don’t think he ever forgave me for getting him fixed.

“I could’ve left you at home,” I told him, “but I happen to love you and didn’t want you to get hurt, maimed or killed.” I hadn’t forgotten about that Wicked Witch meme.

As I filled the bath molds, I tried to look on the bright side. With all this extra time on my hands, I was able to concentrate on my passion-project, an online apothecary store, while trying to stay alive. Two very worthwhile goals in my opinion.

When you’re on the run, you learn to appreciate the little things.

The sound was so soft I almost didn’t hear it. I cocked my head. When it came again, louder and more demanding, I froze, heart in my throat, spatula in hand.

The door. Someone was knocking on it.

Had Pharma-Douche or one of his associates found me?

Doing my best to remain calm, I tiptoed through the living room, while trying not to step on George. He was weaving in and out of my legs because he thought I was going to feed him.

I looked through the fisheye peephole and sighed with relief. Bettina’s elderly neighbor was going back into her apartment across the hall. I set down the spatula and opened the door. 

“Mrs. Baker?”

She turned, a confused expression creasing her well-lived face. She wore a baby blue housecoat, bunny slippers, curlers and bright red lipstick. She must be getting ready to go out. On a previous plant-watering visit, I’d learned her grandson had set her up on a dating site for seniors. As a former beauty queen, she’d had a lot of interest.

“Sorry about that,” I said sheepishly. “I…I didn’t want to open the door.”

I’d told Mrs. Baker earlier I was having boyfriend problems and was staying at Bettina’s place till things blew over. I still felt marginally guilty for lying. Bettina had mentioned her neighbor could be a little forgetful, so that gave me some sense of peace. A lie wasn’t a lie if the person you lied to forgot about it, right?

She held up a large envelope. “This came the other day. I forgot I had it until now.” Instead of handing Bettina’s mail to me, she re-entered her apartment and held the door open. “Come on. I need your help with something.”

Her apartment smelled like cinnamon and pot roast. Two distinct scents, not a weird culinary mashup.

“Another hot date with a different hot guy?” I asked.

The curlers in her hair were a dead giveaway. The red lippie wasn’t. I’d never seen her without lipstick. My grandmother had been the same way. I’m not me until I put my lips on.

“Another date, yes. A different guy, no. Here.” She handed me a cup of tea that, I swear, seemed to materialize out of thin air.

“Oh really? Tell me more. I need details.” If not for the five-decade difference in our ages, we could easily have been two girlfriends chatting about men. Except that birth control probably wasn’t an issue at her age.

I trailed behind her to the bathroom where she tucked Bettina’s envelope amongst the clutter on the counter. “Are we talking the retired electrician or the retired accountant?”

“Neither,” Mrs. Baker replied somewhat coyly, removing her curlers one-by-one and tossing them into the sink. “The rancher.”

My eyes widened. “You mean, the one with chiseled jaw and the scar?” She’d shown me his profile picture the last time I was here. He was pretty handsome for an old guy.

“That’s him,” she said, finger-combing her hair and examining her reflection in the mirror with a critical eye.

I gave a slow whistle. “Well, you can’t go wrong with a cowboy.”

“No, sir-ee, you can’t.” Mrs. Baker rummaged through the clutter on her counter and handed me a bottle of nail polish. “Touch me up, will you? I’d fix them myself, but I’m getting a little rusty.”

I gave the bottle a few good shakes until the beads inside moved freely. “Razzle Dazzle Red. I love that name.”

Mrs. Baker’s eyes twinkled. “Hoping for a little razzle dazzle tonight.”

A snort of laughter burst from my mouth, making me smudge red polish on her cuticle. Senior citizens getting it on shouldn’t be so funny, but I had a juvenile sense of humor.

I glanced around for the nail polish remover and that was when I noticed it.

I paused, frowning. “Well, that’s weird.”

 “What is?” Mrs. Baker asked, blowing on her nails. “My sex life?”

I choked back another laugh, which then turned into a mild coughing attack. “The envelope,” I croaked.

“What about it?”

“It’s addressed to me.”

“Well, of course it is,” she said matter-of-factly.

“I thought it was Bettina’s.”

Mrs. Baker frowned. “It’s got your name on it, doesn’t it?”

“But…but that’s so strange. No one knows I’m here.” I started to reach for it, then pulled my hand away as if it were on fire. Could Mr. Griffin have found me this quickly? What if there was a very thin bomb inside? Or some anthrax? “When did it arrive?”

Mrs. Baker narrowed her eyes. “Last week, I think.”

“Last week?” I repeated slowly, the cogs turning in my head. If that was the case, it was well before all this Pharma-Douche mess started. “Are you sure?”

“I was watching Secret Shadows on the telly when the doorbell rang. It’s on Tuesday nights, right?”

I’d never heard of the show, so I had no idea when it was on. Sounded like a soap opera. Or a crime/horror drama. Or a BBC reboot of Dark Shadows. Which I’d binge the hell out of, by the way.

“So, you’re sure the envelope didn’t come last night?” It was possible she lost track of time.

Mrs. Baker looked at me as if I were the village idiot. “It’s been sitting on my credenza for almost a week.” 

Okay, so it had definitely arrived prior to my life being in danger.

I could’ve sworn it was just your normal, average, everyday manila envelope with a standard mailing label, but upon closer inspection, there was nothing ordinary about it. The parchment-type paper looked aged, and my name was done in fancy black script with lots of flourishes. I followed a bunch of hand-letterers on social media, so I knew good calligraphy when I saw it.

On the flap was a black wax seal with a palm tree insignia stamped in the center. Clearly, someone had gone to a lot of effort with this packaging. I made a mental note to up my game when it came to mailing out my online orders. Without even knowing what was inside, it made me feel special.

 I slid my finger under the flap, broke the wax seal and pulled out a thin package wrapped in vellum.

“How beautiful,” I said, gently releasing the gold foil palm tree sticker that held it closed. Inside were several sheets of paper. I skimmed the cover letter and groaned. Despite the beautiful calligraphy and packaging details, all of my warm fuzzy feelings went down the drain.

“What does it say?” Mrs. Baker demanded. “I don’t have my readers on.”

I shoved the papers back inside. “It’s one of those scammy sweepstakes. Says I’ve won a singles trip to paradise. What a crock of baloney.”

“To where?”

“Some place I’ve never heard of.” I gave a humorless laugh. “Darkaway Island sure doesn’t sound tropical to me.”

“Let me see that.” Mrs. Baker snatched the envelope from me, put on her readers—a pair of blue rhinestone cat-eye glasses she’d pulled from a drawer, and rifled through the papers. “Darkaway Island,” she said dreamily.

“You’ve heard of it? It’s a real place?”

“Of course, it is,” she replied. “My second husband and I spent our honeymoon there. The beaches are quite lovely. And at the higher elevations, there’s snow. You can sunbathe and snow ski on the same day.”

Okay, so it was a real place, but even though the packaging was pretty, putting lipstick on a pig didn’t make it a pony. “It’s probably still a scam.”

Mrs. Baker frowned and clucked her tongue. “It says you entered an online contest and answered a bunch of questions.”

I reached out to take the envelope back, but she swatted my hand like Gram used to when she caught me biting my nails. “What contest? I didn’t enter any contest.” But the moment I said it, something niggled in the back of my mind.

Mrs. Baker flashed me a skeptical look over the rim of her readers. “You don’t remember filling out a questionnaire asking about monsters?”

And then it hit me like a blow to the head.

Unfortunately, I happened to have an unhealthy addiction to online personality quizzes. You know the kind I’m talking about. Who’s Your Celebrity Twin? (Emmy Rossum). How Badass Are You? (7 on a scale from 1 to 10). What’s The Likelihood That You’d Survive A Zombie Apocalypse? (83% because I wasn’t willing to double-tap my mom.) They were like sugar. Impossible to resist and fun while you were doing them, but once the high was over, it was over. I’d completely forgotten about it. Until now.  

I’d stumbled upon the quiz in question using Bettina’s computer. Her wifi was much faster than mine, so I liked checking email and social media from her place. It was literally impossible not to click on Who Is Your Monster Dream Date. I mean, who wouldn’t want to find out they’re compatible with Beast and get their own library? It was every reader girl’s dream. When I’d finished the lengthy quiz, and submitted the results, a pop-up filled the screen saying I’d won a singles trip to paradise. I’d promptly forgotten about it. Until now.

“It couldn’t be real…could it?” A tiny part of me wanted to believe that it was. I’d never won a thing in my life. 

Mrs. Baker held the papers up to the light as if she were looking for some sort of clue. “I’m not getting an inkling that this is false, but I’ll find out for sure.”

An inkling? Like she had magic powers or something?

I bit back a smile as Mrs. Baker brushed past me, grabbed the old corded phone mounted on her kitchen wall, and punched in a few numbers. “Darkaway Island, please.” There was a pause. “Yes, that’s the one.” Another pause. “The listing for the Darkaway Island Resort.” Another pause. “No, not the ranch. The resort.”

I pointed to the letterhead. “The number’s right there,” I whispered.

Mrs. Baker rolled her eyes as if she were talking to someone with a limited intellect. “If it’s a scam, do you think they’d use the real number of the resort on their letterhead?”

She had a point.

“They’re connecting me now,” she said, crooking the phone between her ear and her shoulder. “Stay here. I’ve got to change. The cowboy will be here any minute.” And with the longest phone cord I’d ever seen, Mrs. Baker shuffled to the bedroom in her bunny slippers.

I took a sip of my now lukewarm tea. I’d been trying to quit doing those quizzes, to be honest. It was pretty creepy that seemingly innocent websites used cookies and pixels to track your movements online so they could advertise stuff to you later. Innocently click on What Does Your Favorite Color Say About You, and the next thing you know, an ad for some random (you think) purple eyeshadow shows up in your feed. So pretty! Then you end up buying it because you wonder if purple eyeshadow would look good on you. (It doesn’t.)

Scully and Mulder had told me to keep a low profile while they built the case against Pharma-Douche, so why not go on a tropical vacation someplace far away? The last bona fide one I’d been on had been almost two years ago, and it hadn’t ended well. Having your fiancé leave you at the alter at your destination wedding with one of your bridesmaids had left a few scars.

When Mrs. Baker returned to the kitchen, the first thing I noticed was her smart blue pantsuit with rhinestones on the collar. She clearly had a thing for blue. The second thing I noticed was the huge smile on her face.

“The Darkaway Island resort confirmed you’re registered in one of their luxury seaside villas, all expenses paid for a month. Apparently, it’s some promotional thing the island is doing, because you’re not the only winner. There’s a plethora of fun activities planned. It’s the real deal. No trickery.” Before I could get my mind around this, or the fact that she’d used the word plethora in a sentence, she added, “Your plane leaves tomorrow.”

I staggered backwards and nearly spilled my tea. “Whaaaat?”

She smiled. “Thirty days in paradise.”

For a month? Starting tomorrow?

Taking a few deep breaths, I wondered what the catch was. Maybe I’d have to sit through a timeshare sales pitch or two. Which, honestly, wasn’t that big a deal, considering my current predicament. It would be a small price to pay for a free vacation far away from here.

“You’re positive?”

She put her hands on her hips as if I’d just insulted her. “I spoke with a manager.”

Just as I began to imagine how warm and wonderful the sand would feel while I walked barefoot on the beach, reality set in like a wet blanket. “There’s no way I can make it work on such short notice,” I said with slumped shoulders.

“Why not?” Mrs. Baker asked, incredulous. “I’ll water Bettina’s plants, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

It wasn’t. She had mostly succulents. “I’ve got bath bombs to mail. And I’ve…I’ve got a cat. I can’t just leave George.”

“That’s not a problem.”

Assuming she was about to offer to watch him, I started to protest. Mailing out a box for me was one thing. But my cat? For a month? “It’s too much to ask and George is very—”

A knock on the door interrupted me.

“That must be the cowboy.” Mrs. Baker fluffed her hair then thrust a gnarled finger at one of the papers. “Take a look at that.” 

As she answered the door, I read the fine print. Darkaway Island Resort is all-inclusive. From animals to monsters, everyone is welcome. Including your pets.

They were really playing up the monster angle. I had to admit it was very clever marketing considering the island’s name.

A big, lumbering sort of fellow with a slight limp, a strong jaw and a crooked smile followed Mrs. Baker into the kitchen. She introduced him as Clay. He wore a tan jacket with whip-stitching on the lapel, ironed Wranglers, and well-worn, but clean cowboy boots. His thick, mutton-chop sideburns hadn’t been in his profile picture, but evidently, they weren’t a deal-breaker for Mrs. Baker.

“Daphne just won a trip to Darkaway Island,” Mrs. Baker told him. “She leaves first thing in the morning.”

“Is that so?” he said, eyes sparkling beneath bushy brows. “I haven’t been there in years. Not since they built the amusement park on the boardwalk. I hear it’s quite something. Mmmm, Janice, it smells delicious in here.”

Mrs. Baker beamed. “Well, thank you, Clay.”

I frowned as the two of them talked about the pot roast. How had everyone heard of this place but me?

“I’m not sure I can go,” I told them. “It’s great that George can come with me, but I don’t know how I’m going to get him there.” The thought of my kitty riding in the luggage compartment of an airplane sent shivers down my spine. I would never subject him to that.

“George is her cat,” Mrs. Baker explained to Clay as she handed me another sheet of paper. “Didn’t you see this? He’s seated right next to you.”

I looked at the paper in amazement. Sure enough, George had his own plane ticket. I scratched my head. “How did they know I had a cat and that I’d want to bring him?”

Mrs. Baker shrugged. “Did the quiz ask about pets?”

All at once, I was more than a little annoyed with myself. I’d entered George’s name, thinking the quiz would use it for the name of the enchanted candlestick or the clock. Probably the clock since it was the crabbier of the two. Sheesh. What personal detail hadn’t I told them? If they’d asked for my mother’s maiden name and my social security number, would I have blindly given that, too?

“We’ll give you a ride to the airport in the morning,” Clay said with a wink.

Wait. The cowboy was spending the night? I shot a glance at Mrs. Baker, who didn’t act at all surprised by this news.

Way to go, Mrs. B.

“That settles it then,” Mrs. Baker said, clapping her hands delightedly. “You’re going to Darkaway Island, and you’re going to have the time of your life.”