In silence, we follow their blue shirts and khakis into the elevator, where Trev presses the second floor. We exit, walk single-file down the azure carpet, and enter the room marked 202.
The suite consists of two bedrooms, a living room, and a kitchenette. The crowded tabletop contains four laptops and extra monitors.
While my husband helps himself to more coffee, Rho, a five-foot-four redhead in her thirties, sits and opens an email. “The FBI out of Baltimore welcomes our help. They suggest the State Troopers lead the investigation, and we provide whatever assistance they require.”
IT Trev, tall, blond, and thin, clears his throat and directs his conversation toward Brittany. “Ms. Babcock, we all concur. You should turn yourself in at your earliest convenience.”
The swarmy bleached bombshell smiles sweetly. “We won’t be able to meet with my informant if I’m behind bars. After, I’ll be more than happy to do so.”
According to my phone’s AI truth-detecting app, everything she says is true, but it also shows some shades of orange, indicating ambiguity.What the hell is she hiding?I need to discover her motivations. Thankfully, I brought my computer which will enable me to write a proper project plan.
Once Axel updates his team on last night’s fiasco, I study their faces and wish I could read them. Aware of my NVLD disability, the handsome Trever glances over his reading glasses and winks at me while typing madly. A computer whiz and a bit of a nerd, he’s a kindred spirit. Ink, in his early twenties and covered in tats, was put on the team right out of Quantico.
To me, he appears too young and inexperienced. However, my spouse insists he has instincts way beyond his years. The suited Scott Hunter hides his face behind his computer screen. I have yet to figure him out. About six-foot-two, he doesn’t say much as his dark blue eyes dart about the room. I get the feeling he misses nothing.
“So, that’s where we are.” My alpha takes a sip of coffee and grimaces. “Any questions?”
When no one answers, he dumps the brew into the sink. “I’m off to the morgue. Gwen, you’re with me. Britt, if you’re not going to turn yourself in, I suggest you head back to the beach house and keep out of sight.”
His directive to the drama queen doesn’t make sense. Perhaps he wants her out of everyone’s hair, or maybe he doesn’t want her eavesdropping on their investigation.
Once his ex-partner nods, he eyes each member of his team. “You guys contact the State Police and see what assistance we can offer. I’m guessing they have forensics we can process faster.”
In a flash, we’re back in my Jeep, driving to the medical examiner in Georgetown. Twenty minutes later, I pace and inhale antiseptic cleaners while Wulf and the doctor talk behind closed doors.
Outside in the fresh air, he sighs. “Poor girl was strangled with a scarf from behind. They’re checking under her nails for DNA, but we won’t know anything for a day or so.”
Walking back to the SUV, he’s so lost in his thoughts that I must tap his cheek to gain his attention. “What’s wrong, honey?”
Eyes haunted, my wolf shakes his head. “The girl is a carbon copy of Brittany. Too much so to be a coincidence.”
“A case of mistaken identity?” My mind whirrs as I research and synopsize. “The odds of two people having the same facial features are less than one in a trillion. However, having similar features could be around point one percent. While rare, it’s not impossible.”
“There’s one other thing. For the three months, we slept together, Britt never mentioned being bi-sexual.”
“Would it be considered unusual?” It occurs to me it might be something you’d hide from your heterosexual bedmate, but hey, what do I know?
“No, I guess not. This is simply another out-of-place puzzle piece.” He inches through the small town.
When we pass an old red Mustang, my neck strains as I do a double-take. “Holy shit. That’s him! The knife guy from last night.”
In slow-motion, my brain registers a gunshot, my upper arm burns, and I clasp my fingers over the blood flow.
“Under the dash.” Axel unbuckles my belt, presses my head down, and shouts, “Call Trever.”
At first, I think he’s talking to me, but my car’s Bluetooth responds. It bleeps ten DTMF tones while my husband cranks the wheel to the right and stomps on the brakes. Before we come to a complete stop, his foot presses on the accelerator, and we lurch forward.
Lightheaded, about ready to hurl, I avoid looking at my arm, my sticky, blood-soaked pants, or anything else.
Thank God the IT genius answers on the first ring. “Yo, wolfman, wazzup?”
“Fucking shithead from last night shot at us. I’m in pursuit and need backup.” Handsome chin jutted out, neck muscles pulsing, he drives with such expertise I fall in love all over again.
“I have your GPS. Hold on.” Trever does his magic.
Axel focuses on the road. Me? I lift my eyes above the dash. Ahead of us, the sports car treats the two-lane highway like his own personal racetrack and narrowly avoids hitting a bakery truck head-on.
When I gasp, Axel turns, curses, and pulls to the curb. “Jesus. You’re shot. Why the fuck didn’t you say anything?”
