Page 40 of Predator

Just in case it really was sent to Tristan, I need privacy when I go through it. It doesn’t seem right to hide out in any of the common areas of the pack house, and I’d rather not do something sneaky in mine and Lucas’s room. A shifter’s sniffer is so powerful, they can scent emotions. The last time I opened up an envelope that had writing like that on it, I was so shocked, it probably lingered. Nope. It’s probably better if I return to my old room on the third floor for the moment.

Moving as soundlessly as possible on the balls of my feet, I tiptoe out of the kitchen, past the game room, toward the stairs. I suck in a breath when I reach the second-floor landing. Since I haven’t run into Eleanor yet, she’s probably in either the library or her room. I’d rather not get caught with this envelope if I can, and step lightly on the stairs as I dash the rest of the way up to the third floor.

Once inside my old room, I close the door behind me. Only then do I remember the groceries I left outside. Whoops. Hopefully there aren’t any non-perishables in there because, sorry, I can’t wait any longer.

I use my fingernail to carefully lift the seal. I’m trembling slightly in curiosity and anticipation, trying not to lift it in case I need to pretend I never snooped. It takes a few seconds, and I exhale roughly when I ease it open.

Like last time, there are two separate items in the envelope. I shake it out, waiting for one of them to fall into my waiting palm.

Surprise, surprise. It’s another photograph?—

—and, holy shit, it is a surprise. There’s also no doubt in my mind that this was truly meant for me because I highly doubt that anyone but me would care about the woman in the photograph and for a good reason, too: they wouldn’t know her.

But I do.

The photograph shows a striking beauty about my age; though there’s no about about it since I know full well that she’s two months older than me. She has deeply tanned skin, dark brown eyes, and rich brown hair with highlights that I know firsthand come from a pricy salon in Northern New Jersey. She’s wearing a deep blue blouse that shows off her boobs, black jeans that hug her house even when she’s not sitting on the floor like she is in the photo, and a gag.

Seriously. A wad of fabric is between her lips, tied around her head, making her downcast gaze seem even more submissive somehow.

And, yet, despite the uncharacteristic pose, I know instantly which one of the Lipton twins this is.

It’s Jeannie. It’s Jeannie freaking Lipton.

Why do I have a photograph of Jeannie Lipton looking like she’s been taken captive by someone? The gag scares me. The way her hands are yanked behind her back is freaking me out. Then I see the familiar hardwood floor, and the basket of flowers on the edge of the photo. A few petals are scattered around her feet, with an herb that looks like rosemary stuck in her hair.

She’s gagged, caught, surrounded by flowers. I think I understand why. Most of the witches in the coven need flowers and herbs to do magic?—

“You’d need magic to shut up Jeannie Lipton,” I mutter under my breath.

I wince, immediately regretting the nasty comment. That was mean. Blaming it on my shock at seeing my old friend in the photo—and knowing that the flower basket and vase in the background… the familiar set-up to the room… the window in the back, off to the side from where she’s perched on the floor… she’s at the coven house.

I’m fucking sure of it.

But why?

With trembling fingers, torn between being furious and frightened and I don’t even know what else, I turn the damn photo over.

The last time someone slipped a photo inside of a manila envelope and made sure I got it, there were a few words scrawled on the back. The names of the people in the images, plus the date it was taken. It’s the same thing with this one.

As if I couldn’t tell my friends apart, someone helpful penned Jean on the back, followed by what could be today’s date, or maybe even yesterday’s. Shit. I know it’s November, but without my phone and no reason to track the days anymore, I can’t really say for sure what the date is.

I place the photo on my bed, turning my attention back to the envelope. I almost forgot that there was something else inside of it. Hoping it gives a little more context into what the hell is going on, I find a piece of white card stock nestled toward the bottom.

Yanking it out, I see it has four lines written in the same cursive:

Mon cher Jolie,

I think it is time we have a little chat, yes?

Grand-mère

I should have freaking known.

If it was anyone from my old life except for Lorelei or Jeannie Lipton, I wouldn’t have cared that Marie and her witches have them. I’d feel bad, but instead of running out to confront her, I would’ve waited for Lucas.

But these girls? Lorelei is my best friend. She has been since we were sixteen. My relationship with her twin has always been a little more contentious, but in a sisterly way. We would fight and be catty, but we always made up in the end.

I have no idea what she’s doing here. If Maria sent Armand or someone else to find someone to control me, she couldn’t have chosen any better unless they managed to snag Lorelei. She’s human. She’s tough as nails, with a no-nonsense attitude and a history of being snarky, but she’s human.

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