When all the light had vanished, I opened my windows and the double doors onto the veranda and let the night air waft in. The heat of the day was still heavy, but with the ceiling fan going and the cool evening breeze sweeping across the floor, soon my skin was prickled with goose bumps. I wasn’t cold. Werewolves rarely got cold. But I wasn’t feeling warm and fuzzy either. Thanks for nothing, Ben. My brother had managed to derail my plans before I’d gotten a chance to fully act on them. I’d been hell-bent on running off to Wilder and helping him find Hank. Then Ben had said those three magic words. Wilder killed her. If—and it was a big if—Wilder had killed Holly, it explained a lot about why he’d left town and why he wasn’t popular with the pack. He’d put everyone at risk, and he’d murdered a girl. Maybe murder was too strong a word. As a young wolf he might have lost control.
