“What’s wrong?” Dodge asks. “You having a heart attack too?”
I cough out a strained laugh. “Yeah, maybe I am.” That would explain the pressure in my chest and the buzzing between my ears. “If it wasn’t you, then who was it?” And what was that ceramic ball full of alpha stench? Sweet relief mingles with bitter confusion. I didn’t commit a crime . . . but someone did.
“How about you slow down, pal?” Dodge says, pulling out the seat opposite.
I nod and silently count my fingers, then my toes. After that, I picture Red’s sunflower painting hanging on the refrigerator and then admire the light fittings in the room—which are hopelessly filthy and full of dead flies. But by the time I’m done, my breathing evens out enough to talk.
“We were standing on the steps at the courthouse when something exploded, and my alpha instincts were . . . overridden.” That’s the best explanation I can think of for that paralyzing sensation. I catch Dodge’s eye. “I’m not imagining it because my omega had pottery shards in her legs.”
Dodge’s thick brows knit together. “Any smoke or fire?”
I shake my head. “Not that kind of explosion. It was all pheromones, I think.” I tug my jacket off and hold it out. “And some kind of oil.”
He takes it and holds it to his nose. He gags on a single whiff and holds it at arm’s length. “Fucking awful, for sure. Seems like it was mixed with almond oil, but your forensic pals can help with that.”
Almond oil. I drag my lip through my teeth. “That’s what haze sellers use.”
His nose wrinkles. “That ain’t no haze, though. Smells like someone put a bunch of alphas in rut in sheets and wrapped your coat in them.” He shrugs. “But I haven’t heard anything on the vine that matches.”
I stare at him. An oil base used for processing omega haze, and the unrestrained scent of feral alphas. Red, a former haze cow, and Zack, a re-homed feral, stood on those steps side by side. Which one was the target?
Whatever the perpetrator’s intention, Zack’s clearly the one who got caught in the crossfire. I jump to my feet and snatch my jacket back. “You had nothing to do with this, right? Because this shit’s about to blow up in a big way.”
He holds both hands up. “Swear on my motorcycle.”
I nod and stride from the room, feeling the first tingle of excitement thaw my icy veins. Even if it’s faint, I have a trail to trace, and a project plan is compiling itself in my head.
The barkeep hollers at me. “Hey, Squeaker!”
I stumble mid-stride. “Me?”
She grins and flaps a hand at me. “At least buy something if you’re gonna waste the boss’s time.”
“Coffee,” I say, crossing the distance between us.
She snorts and sweeps one sharp-tipped nail from my head to my toe. “Sure you want to mix caffeine with whatever you’ve got going on?”
“Make it a triple shot,” I say, holding her gaze. I’ve got a long drive ahead of me and a hell of a lot to do.
She mutters and moves to the coffee machine.
When she hands the paper cup over and overcharges me, I hold my card back. “Let me add a tip.” She beams in expectation, and I lean closer. “Lay off the bright makeup. You’ll look ten years younger.” I tap my card and snatch up my coffee. Only Rickon can pull off that shade of eyeshadow and look delectable.
My heart squeezes as I race back to my car and instruct my phone to dial Hale.
“What are your orders?” he asks without preamble.
“I need you to start an appeal against denied bail for Zackary Jones. Cite joint custody with the OCB and vulnerability withouthis rehabilitation program and omega.” I growl under my breath, fury and frustration mingling. “Or can we just say prison is no place for a fucking wild alpha who’s still learning to speak and can kill a man with his bare hands if provoked.” I throw the car into gear and reverse out of the parking lot. “Can you believe someone’s abusing the system like this?”
I will rip the entire corrective services department apart to find the alpha who cast me out.
“Slow down and tell me what happened from the beginning,” Hale orders.
As I drive onto the freeway, the story spills out in a jumble, and I don’t even attempt to fit the chaos into a semblance of order. My paralegal draws up the timeline from my messy story and, knowing him, he’ll have a case file ready for me when I return.
“All right,” he says when I sputter to a close. “Are you going to submit a report about the explosive device?”
I shake my head as I change lanes for the exit ramp. “Not right now. Agent Josef is doing that, along with the evidence we got from Red. I’ll give my statement later.”
