Page 1 of Cuffed By the Wolf

Chapter One

SASHA WALKER

Ican’t believe this is my life right now. How could this happen to me? Hands gripping the leather-wrapped steering wheel, I speed down the highway from Charleston, South Carolina, toward a small town called Lupton, Georgia. I love small towns. I can’t even enjoy the pretty summer window displays because my life has imploded in my face.

I pull into the gravel parking lot behind the row of shops.

“You need answers, Sasha,” I say aloud as I kill the engine.

My mind replays what has gone wrong in my life. I slam my fist against the steering wheel several times while cursing obscenities. Onlookers walking over to the pop-up shop a few feet away whisper to each other while gawking my way.

The heat in Lupton, Georgia hits differently than Charleston heat. Charleston heat wraps around you like you’re sitting in a sauna with a bit of a warm breeze. Lupton heat feels like you’re sitting in a sauna wearing a wool sweater with a light warm breeze.

It’s been four minutes. Time to get out and get answers.

Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. That’s the number burned into my brain, has been for three weeks now — the wire transfer that traces back here, to this exact zip code, tangled up somewhere in the mess of shell companies and dead-end LLCs that used to be my clean, careful career. Somewhere in this town is the person who knows what happened to the Delacroix that vanished off my gallery wall. Somewhere in this town is the reason my phone stopped ringing. My repeat customer trusted me to sell the painting that has been in her family for years to the right client.

I exit the car, and the sun beats down on my back. A handheld misting fan would come in handy right now.

The antique shop has a hand-lettered sign — Della’s Antiques & Oddities — and a bell over the door that jingles like it’s tired of doing its job. A man and a woman are standing near a glass case of antique jewelry when I walk in, and they both turn to look at me the way those in small towns look at anyone whose car doesn’t have local plates.

“Help you find something?” the older man says. He doesn’t move.

“I’m trying to track down a wire transfer that went through here a few weeks back. Whitfield Holdings.” I keep my voice level, the same voice I used for donor calls before donors stopped taking my calls. “Does that name mean anything to either of you?”

The younger woman — wearing a colorful flannel despite the heat. Did she tie-dye the flannel?

Focus, Sasha.

She shoves her hands into her jean shorts pockets. Two mousy brown French braids hang down from the weathered blue baseball cap she’s wearing. Her gray eyes move over me unhurriedly.

The man huffs out a laugh. “Lady, this is Lupton. We got a hardware store and two churches. Ain’t nobody around here doing holdings.”

“I have documentation.”

“Documentation,” he says the word like it’s an accusation. “You’re not from around here.”

“Charleston,” I say, and I regret it before it’s even fully out of my mouth, because his whole face shifts.

“Charleston.” He repeats it back at me slow, like I’ve just confessed to something. “That where they teach you to walk into a man’s shop and call him a criminal?”

“I didn’t call anyone a criminal. I asked a question.”

“Sounded like an accusation to me.” The young woman drifts closer now. “We don’t need Charleston money coming down here treating us like thieves ‘cause you lost track of your own business.”

“I didn’t lose anything.” Three weeks of saying that exact sentence to people who’ve already decided I have. “A painting was stolen from my gallery. The money trail leads here. I’d like to know why, and if either of you actually knows something instead of just being offended on principle⁠— “

“Careful,” the woman says, and steps in close enough that I can smell the beer on her from lunch. “Coming in here calling us thieves⁠— “

“I called you nothing⁠— “

She stretches her hand out like she’s going to push my shoulder. I twist away on instinct, hard, and her hand catches on the leather strap instead, and then it isn’t a conversation anymore. It’s a shoving match next to a display case of antique jewelry.

“You don’t put your hands on me,” I spit.

“How dare you do that fancy move grabbing my hand with your purse strap,” the woman accuses, getting in my face.

“Oh please. You were going to put your hands on me.” I shove her backwards, and the lamp on the counter is knocked sideways, rocking on its base.