𝑅𝐸𝑄𝑈𝐼𝐸𝑀 - M.R.

[REASON]

(I said I'd update this yesterday then very obviously didn't, but oh well, better late than never. And look, I don't think Glocks leave shell casings but I left technical accuracy behind when I decided to write about werewolves so - just imagine.)

Mitch rolls the shell casing between his index finger and thumb, sat on his childhood bed while the Sheriff's department get what they can from the crime scene directly below.

Hopefully, they won't notice one shell casing missing, probably won't even look into it that hard and, if they do? Oops. That's all he has to say on that matter. 

He turns the casing so the butt end is facing up at him, the intricate skull design staring at him, mocking.

It's a hunting family's seal, one of the Calaveras. 

It doesn't add up for several reasons.

One, because Braeden has always used her own weapons, her own ammunition and, even if the hunting family had hired her to kill him - for who knows why - she wouldn't be using their bullets. They wouldn't just be handing them out like candy anyway. 

Two, because Braeden had very clearly referred to whoever hired her as a he, and the head of the family is still that delightful old woman Araya.

Severo doesn't seem like the type to go under her nose and hire an assassin to kill- well, another assassin.

There's no probable cause there, no reasoning. 

That, however, would imply that Braeden, or whoever hired her, went to unnecessary lengths to make him think the Calaveras were responsible, which makes even less sense. 

Incriminating them in building a supernatural army seems completely irrational, since they'd probably want to stop whatever is happening on that front as much as he does.

Unless they've pulled a sudden, drastic U-turn on their views on the supernatural, but Mitch is willing to press doubt on that one. 

Either way, it's something to add to the board, the one he's covered in tarp and rolled over to the corner of the room, because he doesn't want a nosy deputy wandering in and eyeing that.

And because speak of the devil, or however the saying starts, there's a knock at his half-open door.

He lets the casing slip from his fingers, catching it in his closing palm, making sure it's out of view from the dark-skinned deputy idling awkwardly at the door. 

He looks up at her and smiles, charming as can be, "evening, officer, can I help you with something?"

She clears her throat and nods, frizzy curls of her too-long fringe falling over her eyes as she does.

She can't have been working there for more than a month, all baby-faced and doe-eyed like that. She won't stay that way for long, working in law enforcement in a town like this, it'll wear her down faster than she'll be ready for.

Mitch might pity her, if he cared a little more. 

"You can't stay here," she says, all false bravado and empty authority, but she's trying, and that's what counts, "it's an active crime scene, you'll have to stay somewhere else for the night, so will Ms McCall." 

Mitch nods, doesn't let his smile waver, "I thought you might say that," he stands, subtly sliding the casing into his back pocket and slinging his pre-packed duffle bag over his shoulder, "I'll just put together a bag of clothes for Ms McCall and I'll be out of your hair," because being nice gets you nice things, apparently. (He'll let you know if he ever manages to remain polite for long enough to find out himself).