She was hiding something; I was sure of it.
But it wasn’t like I could lunge across the counter and throttle her for answers. If the Trackers were right and Montbello was popular with wolves, the girl could be infected. It was hard to force anything out of a werewolf—especially when you were a reg.
I hauled a pen from my jacket pocket and scribbled my cell number on a napkin. “Can you call me if he does come in?”
She shrugged. “Sure.”
I tried to smile. “Thanks.” I slipped the pen and my phone back into my pocket, picked up my drinks, and headed for a small cart that was stocked with coffee fixings and plastic lids. Serena followed. She sipped her latte and kept an eye on the counter as I added cream to my coffee and sugar to Jason’s.
“She just tossed your number in the garbage,” whispered Serena as the grinder started clanking.
“Think she was lying about not seeing Kyle?”
“Definitely.”
As I fitted the coffee cups with lids, I glanced up at a community bulletin board. There were a few flyers advertising open mic nights and people looking for roommates. I wondered if Kyle had found a place to crash. He had the Honda so it wasn’t like he’d end up sleeping on a park bench, but I hated the thought of him spending his nights in the backseat of the car.
He’s a werewolf, Mackenzie, I chided myself. Don’t you think he can take care of himself? No. If I really did think that, I wouldn’t be here. With a small sigh, I turned away and trailed Serena to the wobbly table Jason had claimed.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the redhead watching us from the counter.
“They haven’t seen Kyle,” I said as I set the cups down. I plucked a discarded newspaper from the chair opposite Jason and sat. Let the girl think we believed her. For now.
Jason didn’t comment, but he did take the coffee. I hoped that meant his anger at me was starting to fade.
I sipped my own drink as I scanned the front page of the paper. A smiling brunette with a streak of white at her temple stared up at me from under the caption: Winifred Sinclair Claims Thornhill on Schedule to Open in Six Months. My stomach twisted. Thornhill was the first of five new facilities the LSRB—the Lupine Syndrome Registration Bureau—was constructing to deal with overcrowding at the existing camps. It was the kind of place Kyle and Serena would be sent if they were ever turned in.
Below the Thornhill piece was an article about a speech Amy’s grandfather—Senator John Walsh—had given urging jail time for regs who failed to report infections.
I wondered if he’d still be so vocal if he knew why Amy had really died.
The bell above the shop’s door jangled as a trio of gazelle-like girls in yoga-chic wandered in. I tossed the paper onto an empty chair as they walked by, hoping Serena and Jason hadn’t noticed the articles. From the tightness at the corners of Serena’s eyes and mouth, I hadn’t been fast enough.
I glanced at the counter. Eve was ringing in three bottles of overpriced water. She didn’t look our way, but I had the distinct feeling she was still keeping an eye on us. “We should get going.”
Jason raised an eyebrow. “We just got here.”
I shrugged. “They haven’t seen Kyle. There’s no point in staying.” I shot him what I hoped was a meaningful glance before heading outside.
“You realize you’re the world’s worst actress,” he said, once we were out on the street. “Didn’t you learn anything from Amy?” I turned in time to see him cringe. “Sorry.”
“Why?” The air felt static-charged and heavy, the way it gets before a thunderstorm, and dusk had deepened to full dark while we had been inside. “It’s not like she didn’t keep things from you, too.” The bracelet on my wrist felt like a hundred-pound weight as I walked to the SUV.
Behind me, Serena filled Jason in on the barista. “She obviously recognized Kyle’s picture. And she’s infected.”
I leaned against the hood of Jason’s car. “I thought wolves couldn’t detect other wolves when they’re in human form.”
Serena shrugged. “We can’t. That leather cuff on her wrist is hiding scars. It rode back when she reached for the phone.”
Jason let out a low, skeptical noise. “Scars on her wrist? You’ve just described half the girls at school who’ve seen Girl, Interrupted and own copies of The Bell Jar.”
“The scars were on top of her wrist, moron,” said Serena. “And they were rough. Scratches, not cuts.”
Jason sighed and cracked his neck. “Okay. So we come back tomorrow and stake out the coffee shop in case Kyle shows.”
I shook my head. “I’ll come back in the morning. After you and Serena leave for home.”
Jason opened his mouth to argue, but Serena waved us silent and pulled us around the back of the SUV. She yanked Jason so hard that only her grip on his arm kept him from falling. She pressed a finger to her lips and nodded toward the shop.
Eve stepped out onto the street, a jacket held loosely in one hand. She stretched her arms back and rocked up on the toes of her gigantic boots. For a second, it looked like she hovered on the edge of taking flight, but then her heels touched pavement. She pulled on her jacket as she headed for a Thunderbird parked halfway up the block. Just before climbing behind the wheel, she slipped a phone out of her pocket and sent a text.
I turned to tell Jason we should follow her, but he was already reaching for his keys.
“Are you sure you’ve never tailed anyone before?” asked Serena as she leaned between the front seats.
The ghost of a grin crossed Jason’s face. “Is that a compliment?” He pulled over and killed the engine before reaching across me for the pain pills in the glove compartment.
“Still hungover?” I asked.
“Just a headache.” He tossed back two pills. “Plus the whole getting-cut-up-with-a-bottle thing.”
“Don’t worry,” said Serena, patting his upper arm and smirking when he winced, “lots of women like men with mileage on them. Not me, personally, but lots of women.”
“If it keeps me off your list, I’ll add a scar or two.”
A block ahead, Eve slipped out of the Thunderbird and crossed the street. The neighborhood was filled with overgrown lots and ramshackle warehouses and had a serious postapocalyptic vibe, but she walked as though she were untouchable—all swagger and confidence and big boots.