A flash drive on a length of black cord came up with it.
Frowning, I unwound the cord from the bracelet and set the drive aside. Amy had given it to me days before she had been killed. It was a bunch of photos and videos and music—things she thought I might like copies of. After the funeral, I had spent whole evenings just looking at every image and listening to every song, trying to get her back.
I should go through the files again. Some of the pictures were of Stephen and Amy, and a few of the videos were from concerts he had taken us to; there might be a few he didn’t have and would want.
But the thought of seeing Amy’s brother again, of talking about her in the past tense, wasn’t something I felt ready to face.
Like a coward, I tied the bracelet around my wrist and headed for the kitchen without calling Stephen back.
Tess looked up from a glossy magazine—one of a whole stack—as I entered the room. “Coffee’s fresh. I just made a new pot.” Her multicolored hair was pulled back in a high ponytail and she had traded her work clothes for a pair of sweats. Tess waited tables at the Shady Cat, a trendy microbrewery/restaurant near the college campus. On a normal Saturday, she headed to bed around 5:00 a.m. and wasn’t seen again until midafternoon, but she had stayed up to make sure I got home okay.
She never used to worry when I was out with Kyle, but a lot had changed.
Tess knew almost everything now—everything except that her ex-boyfriend Ben had been the white werewolf who had killed Amy and terrorized the town. Faced with all of the things I had hidden from her, she wasn’t sure how to trust me again. And she blamed Kyle for the fact that I had run off to Colorado and almost gotten killed. I think that bothered her more than the fact that Kyle was a werewolf. She had always trusted Kyle to keep me safe, and now she felt like he had betrayed that trust.
“How are you still awake?” I asked, passing up coffee and grabbing a granola bar. The TV was on in the living room, but the sound was muted.
“I had about a gallon of caffeinated goodness before you got home,” she admitted with a small shrug. “Plus, I have this whole theory that if I fill out six months’ worth of Cosmo quizzes in a single sitting, everything in my life will magically fall into place.”
“Good luck with that.” I unwrapped the granola bar and broke off a piece. “You didn’t have to wait up,” I said before popping the bite-sized chunk into my mouth.
The look Tess shot me spoke volumes, but instead of pushing, she said, “What are you doing today?”
I swallowed. “I was going to head over to Serena’s.” Jason hadn’t recognized the symbol from my dream and Serena was the only other person I could ask. The last thing I wanted was to remind her of the detention block, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was important. I had been dreaming of that hallway—of that room—for a month. I wasn’t a psychologist, but there had to be a reason my subconscious kept throwing me back there.
“Oh.” Disappointment flashed across Tess’s face. “I have the night off. I was going to ask if you wanted to go on a mini road trip.”
“A road trip?”
“Just a small one. We could leave around three, stay overnight someplace—maybe not the Ritz, but at least someplace with a pool—and come back tomorrow. You’ve been so preoccupied . . . I think getting away for a day would be good for you.”
“Tess, we can’t afford that.” Saying the words was awkward. Money was almost always tight, but we never talked about it.
The corners of her mouth quirked up. “Actually, tips have been really good the last week. Practically insanely good. Most Trackers may be complete assholes, but a lot of them are pretty generous once they down a few beers.”
“More like they’re generous once they catch sight of you coming toward their table,” I teased.
“That, too.” Her hazel eyes sparkled. “So what do you say?”
“It’s just . . .” My voice trailed off. Tess, more than anyone, wanted me to forget about the camp. Just the mention of Colorado was enough to make her flinch. “I really wanted to see Serena,” I said lamely. “And with everything going on in town, I feel weird leaving.” It felt like abandoning my friends.
Tess hesitated just a second too long before speaking. “Okay. No sweat.” She flashed me a smile that was so forced it cracked around the edges. “I’m exhausted anyway.” She stood and walked past me to the sink.
“Maybe we could do it another time?” I asked hesitantly. Hopefully. “Maybe next weekend?”
Tess rinsed out her coffee mug and set it on the counter. “Sure.” She shot me another fake smile. “Besides, I could use a quiet night in by myself. Just me and a tub full of bubbles followed by a bag of Doritos and a Sex and the City marathon. Go. See Serena. Maybe call Jason. You don’t spend enough time with him anymore.”
She headed down the hall before I could say anything else. A second later, her bedroom door clicked softly shut.
I tossed the rest of my granola bar in the garbage: suddenly, I didn’t have much of an appetite. Things had been strained since I had gotten back, but that wasn’t Tess’s fault. She was doing her best to trust me again. She was trying. Even though she was exhausted, she had wanted to spend time with me.
Maybe I couldn’t just up and leave town, but I could have suggested an alternate plan. I liked Doritos and I could make it through at least a few episodes of Sex and the City without completely losing my mind.
Suddenly, more than anything, all I wanted was to spend the day with Tess, to show her that I was willing to try, too.
I started toward the hall just as a flicker of movement on the television caught my eye.
Tess had left the TV tuned to CNN. Amy’s grandfather, Senator John Walsh, was on-screen, standing on the stone steps of some building in Washington, surrounded by reporters. I didn’t bother turning the sound on: I already knew the sorts of things he would be saying. He had become vehemently anti-werewolf after Amy’s death, and over the past few weeks, he had been pushing for two things: a public inquiry into security at Thornhill and the authorization of extreme—even lethal—force in recapturing escaped wolves.
I wondered what he’d do if he knew Amy’s death hadn’t been—as everyone believed—the random act of a crazed werewolf. Branson Derby, then head of the Trackers and Ben’s father, had sent his own infected son on a killing spree as part of a carefully orchestrated plan to increase public fear and destroy the pro-werewolf lobby in Washington. To get Amy’s grandfather—one of the few politicians who had openly supported increased wolf rights—to become as anti-werewolf as possible.