“So…” Bishop frowned as he glanced from face to face. “All of us, like, in the whole stray territory, we’re basically the result of some purebred, natural-born tomcat sleeping around?”
I nodded. “Somewhere down the line of your family tree, yes.”
“But it isn’t the same for women,” Austin said, and I could tell what he was about to say from the way he was clutching the list of hospitalized women. “That’s why there are so few female strays, right? Unless you’re saying Yvette and I weren’t really full-siblings? Like, you think my mom cheated on my dad?”
“Probably not,” Tucker told him. Then he reconsidered with a shrug. “I’m not qualified to say that. I have no idea what your parents got up to. But that’s probably not why Yvette died. You’re right; it’s different for women.”
“Different, how?” Bishop asked.
“Again, I don’t really understand the science,” I said as Tucker went back to typing. “For some reason, human women are much, much less likely to survive scratch fever than men are, even with that necessary gene.”
“Charley’s the only female stray I’ve ever met,” Tucker added, without looking up from his screen.
“I’ve met Robyn,” Vance said on his way in from the kitchen carrying a tray loaded with food. “Titus’s wife,” he added, in response to a confused look from Bishop.
“We’re the only two I know of,” I said as I cleared off the table to make room for the tray. “Though there’s a rumor that one more of us married into one of the purebred families.”
Vance set the tray on our table and passed out empty plates. “I hope family style is okay. I’m not exactly a gourmet plater.”
“It’s fine, thanks,” I told him as I scooped a large helping of scrambled eggs onto my plate. Bishop and Austin helped themselves to bacon and sausage, while Tucker started with a slice of thickly buttered Texas toast.
“But you all three had that gene,” Bishop said around half a strip of bacon. “So at least you had a chance, when you were infected.” He frowned, staring at his still half-empty plate. “At least Yvette had a chance.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “And there’s a theory, according to Titus, that more human women would survive scratch fever with proper medical care. That the infection hits them harder, which makes them less likely to recover without treatment, but that more might live if they were being cared for by people who knewwhythey were ill.”
“Do you think…” Austin cleared his throat. “Do you think that’s true?”
“I don’t know,” I told him. “But what I do know is that you did everything you possibly could have for Yvette. It’s not your fault she didn’t make it. It sounds like she was already very sick by the time you found her.”
Bishop stood, pushing the table toward Tucker and me as he leapt over the back of his booth and jogged toward the bathroom, his jaw clenched.
“He thinks it’s his fault, for not getting to her sooner,” Austin explained. “For not hearing his phone ring when she called.”
And I’d just amplified his guilt by saying that quicker medical care might have helped her.Damn it.
We chewed in silence for several minutes, except for the tapping at Tucker’s keyboard, and Austin filled Bishop’s plate to make sure we didn’t eat everything while he was gone. “So,” I said as I stacked my used plate on top of the cheese-smeared empty egg platter. “Do we have a number yet?”
“Yeah.” Tucker closed his laptop and handed me the paper he’d been making notes on. “Five from Spencer’s list. Who knows how many more who never made it to the hospital, or who went to a hospital that wasn’t in this system. Over a three-year span.”
I glanced over the names he’d circled, reading them aloud under my breath. “Galloway. McGowan. Cooke. Baez. And Muniz.” I sighed. “I only know two of these. Cooke and Muniz.”
“Yeah. Jenna McGowan and Crystal Baez are both sisters of Pride members a few hours north of here. Elias knows them both. And Grace Galloway is the daughter of a man named Kenneth Galloway, who died not far from here a few years ago. He was shot by hunters in the woods, then he limped home and bled out without ever retaking human form. You probably knew him as Kenny G.” Vance shrugged. “Bit of a joke, because he played the saxophone. Badly.”
“Oh god, I do remember him. I didn’t realize he had kids, though.”
“Just the one daughter,” Tucker said. “His wife left him and took the kid when she was little. He was infected a few years later, if memory serves.”
Bishop appeared again from the bathroom, his eyes slightly swollen. “Wait, so you’ve found five more victims—”
“Potentialvictims,” I corrected.
“—who’re related to members of your Pride?”
“Six,” Tucker said. “Maria Bruce was the daughter of Curtis White, one of our regulars. She used her mother’s surname. She died in June of last year, in a hospital on the outskirts of Memphis.”
“And there are probably others,” Vance reminded us.
“So, we think someone is targeting female relatives—sisters and daughters—of stray Pride members?” Bishop said, sliding into the booth again.”
