I nod.
“He wasn’t… how do I put it nicely?” Cami continues. “He wasn’t the best person.”
“He was an asshole,” Bree corrects.
“He was?”
Cami sighs. “I’ve been convincing Izzy to break it off with him since she introduced us. He was so horrible to her.”
That’s new, because with everything I’ve heard about him until now, you’d think he rescued little kittens from massive trees every week. Maybe I need to question his colleagues again. “Is there a way he could have known?”
Cami shakes her head. “No, I would have known if he did. Why do you think he’d know, though?”
“Because Bree might be right,” I say.
“Of course I am,” Bree preens. “What am I right about?”
“That the connection between the victims can be their proximity to werewolves. Different ones, who don’t hang out in the same circles either. But it’s the only thing that has made sense until now,” I nod.
Cami’s eyebrows go up. “Hmm, I’ll need to have another conversation with Izzy then,” she says.
“I do too. I’ll call Laura and ask her if Tyler was aware of us, too.”
“You hate working with a team that much, huh?” Bree asks.
I frown. “What? Why?” I mean, I don’t love it.
“You just made your LAPD case a solo mission by bringing in the werewolf angle,” she explains.
“Oh, I wouldn’t be sure about the solo thing. He’s gonna have to bringusin on it. He just brought another case for the Bureau,” Cami scoffs.
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Fuck, Meena is going to hate meso much.”
Chapter Twelve
Blasts from the Past and Busy Dinner Tables
Elliot
The Werewolf sits on the couch, flipping channels, his legs stretched out and resting on the coffee table. Mom glares if anyone tries that with her beloved antique table while she’s around. But she’s not here. She’s never here. Just The Werewolf.
I curl up on the small chair in the corner, chin on my knees, body folded tight. Like my barrier of chicken limbs will protect me. Nothing can. Not the doors, not the locks.
I tried staying in the bathroom once, the door firmly locked. Just made him angrier. People die when The Werewolf is angry. So I sit here. Waiting and counting minutes.
He slowly turns to me, a cynical smile pasted on his face. Not the gleeful one he has when he’s hurting people, both lips stretched wide, sharp teeth full on display. This one is slighter, the left side stretched up higher than the right, eyes gleaming with hate. A jolt runs down my spine.
“Your mom was telling me about this camping trip you’re doing with your father. Sounds fun,” he says and goes back to watching some sitcom he’d landed on.
I still. I was excited about the trip. A reason to get away, maybe talk to Dad, where I know he won’t be listening. A tinyhope. That was my biggest flaw. My downfall. Hope.
“I canceled it. It sounded boring. They’re boring,” I say in the surliest teenage voice possible.
“Hmm. I don’t know. Can be fun, a little bonding time. It’s not healthy for kids to not like their parents,” he comments lightly.
I don’t let my breath get short, not a single sign of the panic that’s wracking my nerves. “They are fucking annoying,” I mutter.
His smile gets wider. I still don’t know why he hasn’t killed them yet. I try my best not to show any care for them, but he has to know. He’s not stupid. So, it’s only a matter of time, isn’t it? All I can do is try my best for as long as I can.
