“You two look like the very best of friends,” she said with a smile as she handed the picture back to him. “I’m sorry I never got a chance to meet him.”
“Me, too.”
Trey gazed at the photo for a long time, replaying the moment when it had been taken, and all the moments that had happened since, culminating in some stranger telling him that his best friend had killed himself.
“I should have done something,” he whispered brokenly. “I knew he was having problems transitioning back to civilian life and getting past what happened in Afghanistan. I should have dragged him to more VA meetings, forced him to get counseling for his depression. He was my best friend and I failed him.”
“Stop,” Samantha said firmly, her hand coming out to cover his own, which was still holding the picture. “You didn’t fail him. I’m not going to act like I knew the details of the situation, but it’s obvious you were there for your friend. Sometimes, even that’s not enough. Kyson wouldn’t want you blaming yourself for his death.”
Trey knew she was right, but he still felt like shit anyway. He replayed every conversation he’d had with his friend over the past few months, trying to understand why he didn’t see this coming and berating himself because he hadn’t.
He and Samantha talked for hours about Kyson, their friendship, and all the things he wished he could have done for his friend. She was amazing at letting him get it all out without letting him wallow in it. By the time midnight rolled around, Trey felt like he might be okay. Yeah, Kyson’s death was going to hurt for a long time, but with Samantha’s help, he knew he’d get through it.
“As much as I hate to leave, we both have to be up early tomorrow,” he said, brushing her hair back as they sat cuddling on the couch.
She straightened up to look at him in concern. “Are you okay to drive home?”
He pressed a soft kiss to her lips. “Yeah. Thanks to you.”
Trey slipped off to use the restroom before he headed home. He was gazing at a photo of Samantha and her sister, Loralei, standing in the snow somewhere in the Alaskan wilderness, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, when he noticed the door to the guest bedroom was slightly ajar. Trey found himself moving toward it without realizing what he was even doing, his inner wolf guiding him.
What he saw in the room knocked the air out of his lungs. The space wasn’t a guest room at all, but a home office, with a desk and a series of filing cabinets. Three of the walls were covered floor to ceiling with photos of Trey, his pack mates, and dozens of crime scenes. He recognized many of the pictures from those situations when the Pack had come damn close to revealing itself. She even had pictures and articles from New Orleans and Los Angeles, including a blurry picture of a large wolf running down a dimly lit street in the rain. Lengths of different colored yarn connected the various crime scenes to different members of the Pack, with a scary number of them connecting back to him.
Two fast strides brought him over to the desk and the file folder left open on top of it. It was filled with stuff about him, from his performance evaluations at work to his friends and family to medical history, even details from his time in the military. It was his whole damn life.
Worried Samantha would come looking for him, Trey quickly slipped out of the bedroom, careful to leave the door ajar like it was before, then headed out to the living room, all the while fighting to calm his breathing even as his insides churned like water in a washing machine.
He’d known Samantha was suspicious all along, so what he saw shouldn’t have bothered him, but it did. She wasn’t merely suspicious about him and his pack mates. She was frigging stalking them. Even as she stood and wrapped him in another hug, asking him again if he was going to be okay, all Trey could think about was that every word she’d spoken to him this evening had been nothing more than a ruse to get him to trust her. To get him to spill everything to her. And it had been working.
“Text me when you get home,” she murmured, lifting up on her toes to kiss him. “I want to make sure you get there okay.”
Trey nodded and kissed her back, telling her he’d definitely text even though his head was spinning so fast he was practically dizzy as he walked to his truck.
Chapter 11
“Why didn’t you guys tell me you were out looking for the killer tonight?” Trey asked as he slipped into the booth in the nearly empty bar where Connor, Trevor, and Hale were sitting. “I would have come with you.”
Trey had been planning to drive over to Connor’s place to talk to him after leaving Samantha’s apartment, but when he’d texted to see if his friend was still awake, Connor had messaged him back, telling him to meet them at a bar.
“We didn’t want to interrupt your date,” Connor said, motioning toward one of the waitresses, then at Trey and the beers on the table. “What happened? You look like crap.”
Sighing, Trey slipped into the booth beside Hale, ready to tell them about what he’d seen in Samantha’s spare bedroom, but then he noticed the police sketch on the table in front of Trevor that completely distracted him. Reaching over, he grabbed it, realizing it must have been the woman who’d attacked him at the Main Street Garden Park. Well, at least what she looked like before turning into a big eyed, pasty-faced, soul sucker.
Earlier in the day, he and Connor had taken one of the department artists to the bar on Pacific Avenue, asking the bartender and the server to help work up a sketch of the woman they’d seen leaving with that guy last night. Unfortunately, Trey had been pulled away on a domestic violence call before the drawing was anything more than a couple of circles and a few lines on a pad. The picture he was looking at now was a finished product with enough detail to hopefully make her easy to identify. Even if she didn’t look a thing like the creature who’d almost killed him. Attractive, in her midthirties, the woman in the picture was heavily made up with lots of eyeliner, bright red lipstick, and dark wavy hair that skimmed her shoulders.
But as good as the sketch might be, it was still only a two-dimensional drawing of a real person. He knew from experience how difficult it could be identifying a suspect from a sketch. It was hard enough with men, but with their makeup and hairstyles so easy to change, it was even harder to do with a woman.
“Have you found anyone who recognizes her?” Trey asked as the waitress brought over his beer.
He was glad his teammates had stayed together tonight. Trey didn’t want to think about how dangerous it would be for one of them to confront that thing on their own again.
“Yeah, a couple people,” Hale said. “Especially when we showed them the photos of Demario and Alden at the same time. But while they definitely know her face, nobody has a clue what her name is. And since she always lets the guys buy her drinks, we can’t pull credit card receipts and get a name that way. Worse, it seems she has an almost preternatural ability to avoid surveillance cameras. We haven’t caught a glimpse of her face on video yet.”