“You can’t seriously think splitting up is a good idea.” Kyle stared at me in disbelief.
“We’re running out of time. People are going to start leaving soon to avoid breaking the curfew. The fewer people in the house, the less chance we have of getting in and out of that room.”
Kyle hesitated. He shot a glance at the door Stephen had slipped through, and I could tell from the frown on his face that he knew I was right.
“I’ll be fine,” I promised. “I’ll be with Jason.”
“You know that’s not as reassuring as you think it is, right?”
I grinned and pressed a quick kiss to his lips. “Be careful.”
He nodded, the gesture tight and reluctant. “You too.”
I eased into the shadows along the side of the room and watched as Kyle gave Mrs. Walsh a wide berth before disappearing through the back door. Trying to tell myself that the big, strong werewolf would be all right on his own, I made my way out of the kitchen and back to the party.
Conversations engulfed me as I wove past groups of guests. You couldn’t have a fund-raiser attended by the LSRB and the Trackers without plenty of werewolf slurs, and while I tried to tune them out, the worst ones slipped through.
“None of this would have happened if they would just treat those creatures like the vermin they are.”
“When you have a pest problem, you don’t wait to call in an exterminator.”
“My husband hunts big game. Can you imagine the thrill he’d get from hunting one of them?”
Heat flooded my cheeks and crept down my neck. Walking by in silence felt like cowardice, but I couldn’t afford to draw attention to myself. I forced myself to stay quiet and kept walking.
My eyes roamed over the crowd, searching for Jason as I moved from room to room. I only spotted two dagger tattoos, neither of them his.
He had told me once that most of the influential Trackers—the ones who were high up or wealthy—didn’t get the brand. It made it easier for them to mingle with politicians and attend fund-raisers. No matter how popular the Trackers became, some people still found the tattoos unnerving. It reminded them too much of the group’s early roots as an offshoot of white supremacy organizations—a past the Trackers had spent a lot of money trying to make people forget.
I tried not to think about the fact that the tattoo had been optional for Jason. As someone who was both wealthy and politically connected, he could have forgone getting marked. Instead, he had voluntarily gotten the tattoo—or at least most of it.
I finally spotted him just past the entrance to the living room, surrounded by a group of laughing girls who all looked as though they had stumbled in from an episode of The Bachelor. All Jason needed was a rose to hand out.
Relief flashed across his face as he caught sight of me but quickly changed to confusion when he realized I was alone. He doled out apologies and parting smiles before breaking away from the gaggle of groupies and making his way to me.
“We leave you alone for twenty minutes and you pick up an entourage?”
“Being blond and ridiculously rich is a heavy burden. Where’s Kyle?”
“Following Stephen. We saw Amy’s father upstairs.” I bit my lip, unsure how to tell him what we had found. Of all of us, he had been the closest to Amy’s family and the most reluctant to believe in a possible connection between CBP and the camp. “Mr. Walsh was talking to one of the women who tortured Serena at Thornhill. He seemed to know her really well. Like, intimately.”
“Shit,” muttered Jason. He grabbed two drinks from a passing tray as we made our way across the foyer. He downed the first and ditched the glass before starting in on the second.
“Tell me you at least found the key to the study.”
No one was looking our way. I nodded and slipped the key out from my bra.
“Safer than Fort Knox.” The joke fell flat and he took another drink.
“Is there some twisted part of you that wants to see if I’ll beat the crap out of you?” I plucked the glass from his hand and took a sip for courage before tipping the rest down a potted plant.
“Jason?”
Mr. and Mrs. Sheffield materialized out of nowhere.
Panicked, I shoved the empty glass back into Jason’s hand.
In some ways, Matt Sheffield looked like an older, colder version of his son. He had the same eyes without the spark of warmth. The same mouth without the capacity for laughter. But as cold as Jason’s father was, he had nothing on his wife.
The temperature around us dropped as her gaze settled on me. “Jason, you didn’t tell us you would be here. Or that you were bringing Mackenzie.”
Somehow, just the way she said my name made me feel like a piece of gum that had been dragged in on the bottom of someone’s shoe. I was suddenly achingly aware of the fact that I didn’t belong here. I tugged on the sleeve of my dress—the dress Jason had paid for—self-consciously and prayed she wouldn’t look down and recognize the shoes.
“Would have,” said Jason, wrapping an arm around my shoulders, “but then we would have had to have an actual conversation, and I know how much you detest those mother-son moments.”
“I don’t know why you always say such things.” The ice in Mrs. Sheffield’s voice cracked artfully. The words were a show for anyone who might be within earshot. “You know I try.”
“Darling,” said Jason’s father, completely oblivious to—or just ignoring—the tense exchange between his wife and son, “I see some people I need to say hello to.” He turned and held out his arm.
Before taking it, Mrs. Sheffield shot a pointed glance at the empty glass in Jason’s hand. “Do try to remember where you are and behave yourself.”
“Love you, too, Mom,” called Jason as she walked away. “Not a word about the fact that I didn’t go home last night or the National Guard or the curfew.” He set the glass on the floor. “Someone really needs to send that woman a subscription to one of those parenting magazines.”
“I think it’s about eighteen years too late.” I shook my head. “Come on. I just want to get out of here.”
I gripped the key tightly in my hand as we made our way to the study. The tap of my heels echoed in the empty hallway and I couldn’t stop glancing over my shoulder.
“Don’t look so nervous,” said Jason, though he seemed just as off-balance as I felt.