Sitting in the uncomfortable visitor’s chair in front of Holbrook’s desk, I nibbled the second donut, occasionally pausing to brush the cascade of crumbs from my sweater. I might have a slight weakness for junk food.
After licking every last trace of sugar from my fingers, I sat back in the chair, sipping my coffee and drumming the fingers of my free hand on the arm of the chair. My blood was thrumming with a mixture of restless energy and a mounting sugar high. Although my profession as a freelance graphic artist requires me to spend a lot of time sitting around on my ass, I’ve never been one to just sit around with nothing to do. This restlessness got worse with the wolf’s constant need to run and be free, compounding my already fidgety nature.
Glancing around the room again, I spied a series of glossy photographs peeking out of an innocuous looking manila folder sitting on top of the box on Holbrook’s desk, the image of a single lonely boot lying on snow covered gravel catching my attention. I knew I shouldn’t be snooping, but boredom made for idle hands, at least that’s what my grandmother always said.
I looked out into the hallway to make sure that no one was passing by, and then, giving in to curiosity, plucked the top most picture out of the folder. Horror bloomed in my chest, stealing my breath away, as my eyes danced over the photograph in my hand. It looked like someone had splashed a bucket of paint along the side of a pickup truck, red streaking down the pitted metal like a gruesome modern painting.
It took a moment for me to make sense of the swaths of red smeared across the truck, the direction of them looking purposeful.
“For you Riley.”
Nausea roiled in my gut, the words swimming in my vision.
“Oh, god,” I whispered, my free hand hovering in front of my mouth.
I didn’t realize I was crying until the first salty tear splashed down on the glossy paper. The photograph fluttered down to the worn carpet at my feet as I reached for the trash can beside Holbrook’s desk, the acidic break room coffee burning a bitter path up my throat.
“You weren’t meant to see that,” Holbrook said behind me.
“I wish I hadn’t,” I said, wiping the back of my hand across my mouth, wrinkling my nose at the smell of vomit.
I heard the faint scuff of his feet on the carpet a moment before a square of white fabric appeared at the edge of my vision. Wordlessly, I accepted the handkerchief from him and wiped my mouth, my fingers brushing against the raised stitches of some kind of embroidery. I could just make out the minute stitching that spelled out a set of initials. D.J.H.
Who even uses a handkerchief anymore?
I ignored the warmth in my eyes as fresh tears rose to the surface. Sniffling, I offered the crumpled wad of fabric back to him with a shaking hand. His fingers were warm, and buzzing with energy, squeezing my fingers around the damp square of cotton.
Holbrook’s voice was full of sympathy when he broke the silence. “Come on. The boss man wants to see you.”
Chapter 12
DIVISION CHIEF JAVIER Santos was shorter than Holbrook, wider through the hips and shoulders, but his presence gave the impression of a much larger man. There was something in the stubborn set of his chin and the flinty quality of his dark eyes that commanded attention and respect. He was a natural alpha male, the wolf could tell, yet he didn’t appear to demand the admiration of his men. Holbrook seemed to regard him with respect that had been earned. He was instantly likeable, and yet I couldn’t help my hesitancy. I resented him for seeing me pale with nausea, eyes red rimmed and gritty.
After so many years alone, with only my cat and computer for company, I was not accustomed to being vulnerable around others. My painful recovery and transformation had been exposed for all the world to see by Chrismer and her ilk during Samson’s trial. After he’d been shipped off to prison, I had closed myself off from the public eye, preferring the company of books and internet “friends” to interaction with actual people.
There was something implacably mysterious about Holbrook that cut through the barriers I had erected around myself, but Santos was an unknown. It was obvious that Holbrook trusted him, but it was going to take me a while to formulate an official opinion of the man.
His office was larger than Holbrook’s but not ostentatious by any means. Dark woods dominated the space, and would have made the room tomb-like if not for the sunshine streaming in through several large windows. The room possessed a homey warmth that was reflected in several framed family photos around the room. From the looks of it, Santos was a very young grandfather, but as I stepped further into his office I caught the gleam of several grey strands peeking through his dark hair.