The closest city is Syracuse. According to the GPS in Jeremy’s SUV, Westwood was almost an hour west of that, off a regional highway. We’d been driving for about thirty minutes when the snow started falling again and the radio announcer declared another blizzard was set to hit before nightfall. “I don’t like the sounds of that,” I said. “It’ll be fine.” Clay turned up the windshield wipers. “I’m planning on getting this done before dinner. And since we didn’t say we’d be back until bedtime, that gives us a few extra hours.” “For a nice meal, without screaming kids and flying food?” “I was thinking more like…” He pointed to a roadside motel as we passed. “Unless you’d rather go out to dinner.” I grinned. “Not unless we’re done early enough to swing into Syracuse and get a hotel with room service.” He put his foot on the gas. • We finally reached Westwood…complete with a werewolf leaping off the town welcome sign. “Walsh chose to Change here?”
