Wild Side (Dark Side Series: Book 2)

Twenty-Five

The entire drive home, and in the tired hours after, Lisa had refused to speak to me. She wouldn't talk to Cal, either, although the alpha got a nod here and there. The most we'd gotten was a shaky 'thank you' when we'd first driven off the castle grounds and headed north. At a glance it seemed as if the slight young woman in the backseat could barely remember to breathe. Her face was tense, drawn. The eyes that face the window so glumly were red. What had she seen? I wondered. What had happened to her?

Cal didn't want to talk, either, apart from answering the occasional ring of her cell phone. The pack, it seemed, had endless concern for their leader. She wasn't the sort to do much slinking around behind their backs; doubtless they were worried about her son, too. And every time she'd answer I'd see her shoulders lift a little beside me, her voice tuning up and into a positive, "soon; we'll find him soon."

So the three of us made it home, each wrapped up in their own thoughts, not ready to share, not ready to listen. By the time I'd dropped them off I'd barely been able to turn into my driveway and slog my way up the front steps to the front door.

Since I was gone, Cal had collected my mail and paid the bills like I was still living there. She maintained the property, turned away any of my past life friends if she caught them around. The cul-de-sac's lonely streetlight cast a stark glow on prim and proper lawns adorned by real estate signs. A few pack members had moved into the vacancies, and they were out now, eyes shining as my headlights faded.

I looked back across the road toward Calico's house. Another car was turning into the driveway, crunching through layered snow. Lisa was beside the Alpha at the front door, wobbling unsteadily backward at the sight of incoming werewolves. Cal took her gently by the elbow and whispered something into her ear. Maybe giving her the same treatment she'd given me once, promising warmth and safety and a clean room.

And it reminded me of the car; Cal'd offered to call Dix for her. Her response? A quick shake of the head.

The love of her life. Her future husband.

She didn't immediately want to tell him where she was. I'd bitten my lip and let her be for tonight. Maybe tomorrow, she could gather herself.

My fingers warmed the cool metal key in my hand as I stepped along my cleared walkway and up to the darkened door. My head was killing me. My stomach was upset. For a second, for just a split second as the key turned in the lock, I felt relieved to be going home. And then, in the dark, in the cold-kept house of sixty-five degrees, I was.

Alone. Empty. Wrong. I was walking in the gathered dust of another lifetime. My fingers tracked over the table by the stairs, moved down the hall to the living room, to the couch. One of Mila's dolls-she'd forgotten to pack it for Brazil, and I'd heard hell about it on the plane-sat propped beside a collection of DVDs I hadn't watched since . . . since Sheriff Caelan Harlowe had knocked on my door asking after a missing neighbor.

I let myself throw up, took a couple pain killers and finally settled in with a cup tea at the kitchen table. Deleted some ancient voicemails from friends I hadn't contacted. Read a couple old newspapers about political upheavals over who did and didn't know about the existence of the supernatural. Then it was off to bed, where I'd sit with my sketchbook in my lap, watching my drawings transition from experiments and doodles to the clawed hand stretching out from behind the birdfeeder; dozing in and out; dreaming of murder until the night and much of the morning had passed. I'd almost called Caelan, but thought better of it and left him to his workings while I got to cleaning my home.

In the glow of a new day, over a donut from Dunkin' down the road, I'd had a chance to consider what I'd seen of my best friend and what I'd almost done to her. And I found myself ashamed, and embarrassed.