Page 66 of Hell’s Half Acre

Twelve

Sorcha paused at the front of a Mediterranean-style mansion. E 44th Street wasn’t far from the home she rented.

Too close, actually.

In the heart of Ardsley Park—Chatham Crescent, the house seemed just like any of the other homes surrounding it. Never would she dream a werewolf Alpha would live here. It seemed too elegant and posh.

“You sure about this?”

Luke arched a brow as he got out of Delilah.

“Got it. Stupid question.” Of course, he was sure. He knew the address of most scary things in Savannah.

Not to mention, Rory was the one who’d sent the address. The police had notified the victim’s widow last night.

Sorcha paused on the sidewalk. “It looks like a box.”

Luke gestured over his shoulder. “Look across the street.”

Yeah, okay, that white home over there really looked like someone had put it together with stacked shoe boxes. “I stand corrected.”

Luke pulled the tie from his hair, and shook it out in slow motion—or did she just imagine that part? Without another word, he led the short distance to the front door.

An older woman answered.

Luke flashed his badge. “We’re sorry to disturb you at this horrible time, but we need to ask a few follow-up questions. Is Mrs. Osbourne home?”

“She’s in her bedroom. Come in and let me see if she’s up to talking.”

Luke stood back to let Sorcha enter first. Elegant was the only word to describe the inside of the house. While it wasn’t as large as many of the Savannah homes around it, it was still stylish. She’d never seen black wallpaper, but the white trim made it all exceptional.

I would never guess a werewolf lived here. She sent her thoughts to Luke.

Looks like a den to me. He winked at her.

Especially as they passed a room that was filled with a dozen imposing men and women who watched them with a wariness that was tangible. Members of their pack? she asked Luke.

He gave a subtle nod.

The older woman vanished down a hallway and then returned a few minutes later. “She doesn’t want to leave her room, but she will see you. Please follow me.”

Again, Luke stood back for Sorcha to go first. She wasn’t sure what to expect as they walked up the crisp stairs and the woman opened a door to a beautiful bedroom.

Well…sort of beautiful. The whole place reminded her of a hunting lodge.

But that wasn’t the oddest part. Sorcha drew up short as she saw a huge painting over the bed. It was something she’d seen in the homes of Colonial Williamsburg when she’d visited there. Almost life-size, the oil painting showed a man in a long dark curly wig that framed a cartoonish face. He wore a dark blue colonial-style frock coat and even had an oddly drawn cravat.

What the hell was that?

A woman in her thirties sat in a chair by the window, watching Sorcha. Holding a tissue in her hand, she dabbed at her swollen, red eyes. “That was my Larry. He considered himself an old country esquire and thought it would be a hoot to be painted as William Byrd. I always hated that painting. But he was obsessed with William, even though William was my ancestor and not his.” She blew her nose loudly. “Larry had a SCAD student do it as a class project. Now it’s all I have of him!” She began sobbing.

Uncomfortable with the grief, Sorcha glanced back at Luke.

Killer should have burned that hideous painting first. You know you’re a narcissist when…

She snorted a laugh at those words and disguised it as a cough. Why did he have to be funny when she needed to be serious?

Clearing her throat, she turned back toward his widow. “Ms. Osbourne?”