I should have been relieved.
It was just . . . of the hundreds of transition houses in the country, what were the odds of something happening to the one house where Sinclair was being held?
Only fools welcome coincidence—that was something Hank had always said.
With both the warden and the detention block gone, it seemed unlikely the truth about Thornhill would ever come out. And that, I couldn’t help thinking, might be the reason that particular transition house was no longer standing.
There was a pen on the table. I picked it up and absently began doodling on a paper napkin, turning the edge of a grease stain into the symbol from my dream.
Sinclair hadn’t been working alone at the camp. What if whoever she had been working with had wanted to make sure she wouldn’t be able to tell anyone about their involvement?
I glanced up as a prickly sensation crept down my spine. Serena was staring at the ink swirls I had made. There was a tightness around her mouth and at the corners of her eyes, an echo of the fear she’d shown upstairs.
She took both the pen and napkin from my hands.
“Serena?”
Without answering, she expanded the sketch I had made, pressing the pen down so hard the paper tore.
“Ree?” Trey stood and walked around the table.
Serena didn’t acknowledge his presence—not even when he stepped between us and put his hand on her shoulder.
He gave her a small shake. “Ree?” he repeated, voice more insistent.
I peered around him. The sketch was now twice as large as the one I had made—it swallowed my original lines whole—but before I could get a decent look, Trey reached for the pen in Serena’s hand, blocking my view.
All at once, Serena seemed to snap back to her surroundings. “Sorry,” she said, voice small and shaking, as Trey shot me a worried look over his shoulder. “I was just—”
Whatever she was going to say was cut off by a knock at the door.
“I’ll get it,” I murmured, letting out a deep breath and pushing my chair away from the table. “It’s probably Kyle or Jason.” I left Trey to watch over Serena. Their voices followed me down the hall. Guilt settled over me as I heard the fear and confusion in Serena’s voice as she struggled to explain to her brother what had just happened.
I should never have shown her that picture.
The knocking came again, louder this time.
“Coming,” I muttered, knowing that if Kyle were outside, he’d hear me even through the door.
The knocking stopped. Definitely Kyle. Something in my chest unclenched just a little bit.
“I haven’t been able to . . .” My voice trailed off as I pulled open the door and stared at the man on the porch—a tall, raven-haired man who was definitely neither Kyle nor Jason.
“Can I help you?” I asked, tightening my grip on the doorknob as my gaze darted to the unmarked skin at the man’s neck. Despite the cold and snow, he wasn’t wearing a jacket.
He flashed me a smile that probably would have been disarming if I had been a less paranoid person. His teeth were toothpaste-commercial bright, but crooked on the bottom. A swoop of dark hair fell over his pale forehead while stubble softened the harsh angles of his jaw. He was clad head to toe in black and held a manila envelope in his hand.
“I’m sorry—you were expecting someone else.” His voice held the faint trace of an accent—Irish or Scottish, maybe—that had been worn down by time. “I was wondering if you could help me.”
Before I could reply, he reached into the envelope and slipped out a sheet of paper. “I’m looking for this girl.”
I fought to keep my expression blank as he passed me a glossy 8×10 of Serena. The photo had been cropped, but I knew it had been taken at Thornhill. I recognized the metal table with the built-in restraints and the large digital clock on the wall behind Serena’s left shoulder. It was the room where they had tortured her.
Every drop of blood in my veins turned to ice water.
How had anyone found her? We had all given fake names, but Serena had been even more of a ghost. In order to hide her work from the LSRB, the warden had kept the wolves from the detention block from being registered in the system—something Jason had discovered while working in the camp. As far as the LSRB was concerned—as far as the official records for Thornhill were concerned—Serena had never existed.
My pulse pounded in the back of my throat until it felt like I was choking on each heartbeat, but somehow when I spoke, my voice sounded normal. “I’ve never seen her.” As inconspicuously as I could, I took a small step to the side and closed the door halfway as I handed the photo back, trying to block as much of the view into the house as possible. “Who is she?”
The man’s gaze dropped to my arm. Too late, I realized my sleeves were pushed up. The scar on my forearm—a permanent reminder of the men behind Amy’s murder—was fully visible. It was long and jagged and could easily have been caused by any number of things. Including a werewolf.
These days, any scar was suspicious.
A trickle of sweat ran down my spine as a floorboard creaked behind me. I didn’t have to look back to know it was Trey. He was careful to stay out of sight, but he brushed past me as he took up a position behind the partially closed door.
The man on the porch pulled his eyes away from my scar and slipped the photo back into the envelope. “She’s one of the wolves who escaped from Thornhill.”
“Here? In Hemlock?” This time when I spoke, my voice cracked slightly over the words. I prayed it would be written off as a normal reaction to the thought of escaped werewolves hiding nearby.
The man handed me a plain white business card bearing only a phone number. “Wolves are found all over and trouble usually follows.” The words were bland, but it was impossible to miss the threat behind them.
I frowned at the card before tucking it in my pocket. The area code was 713. Houston. Hank and I had lived there for almost an entire year, once—long enough for him to break down and get a landline.
The man on the porch was watching me in a way that made the hairs on the back of my arms stand at attention. “Give us a call if you change your mind about seeing her.”
“Sure,” I lied, forcing a tight smile as I began closing the door.
“The thing is,” he said, stepping forward and wedging his foot against the doorframe to keep me from shutting him out, “the gentleman two doors down swore he’s seen her here.” Something sharp and predatory slid behind his eyes, a glimpse of the real man underneath the polite veneer.