Page 9 of Jesse
His eyes were wide, haunted. Pale skin, mussed blond hair, his pants were smudged with something darker than grease.
He looked like he’d seen a ghost.
I stopped mid-step, wanting, aching, to go to him first. The instinct to comfort him was immediate, bone-deep.
Whatever had gone down, I didn’t believe for a second that Beck had caused it. He didn’t look guilty. He looked wrecked. But I didn’t have the full story yet.
And I wasn’t a rookie. Not when it came to pack matters. No matter how badly I wanted to sit next to him and say, “Hey, you’re okay. We’ve got you.” I needed to do this right.
So I forced myself to turn away and walk straight to the sheriff instead. Sheriff Benson stood near the tape, speaking to one of the patrol officers.
He looked relieved to see me. Relieved and rattled, which wasn’t a good combo on a man who usually looked carved from stone.
“Sheriff,” I said as I approached, giving him a nod.
“Jesse,” he returned, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thanks for coming. Cooper said you’d be our point of contact.”
“I’m here. What happened?” I asked.
The sheriff blew out a breath.
“Beck, he called it in. Said he found his coworker Preston unconscious on the floor. EMTs checked Preston, he’s stable. They wanted to bring him to the hospital but I told them to hold off. That’s not the worst of it,” Benson said.
I braced myself. Benson motioned for me to follow him around the side of the truck.
“Beck found a body inside the freezer,” Benson said.
Crap. I didn’t say it out loud, but my jaw clenched as we stepped past the perimeter. The air here felt heavier. Tainted. Like the space itself remembered violence.
The fridge door was open, and the body inside was covered now, a tarp pulled neatly over it. But I could smell blood, metallic and cold, clinging to the walls and my throat.
The sheriff gave me a grim nod. “You sure you want to see it?”
“No,” I said honestly. “But I need to.”
He pulled the tarp back just enough for me to see. Male. Human. Late twenties, maybe thirties. Pale from cold, eyes open and glassy.
However, it was the throat that made my stomach twist. The torn mess of flesh, the unmistakable gashes carved in deep arcs.
Claw marks.
Shifter kill.
My breath caught. My stomach lurched. This wasn’t some accident or overdose or wrong-place-wrong-time thing. This had intention. This had rage.
I stepped back, heart pounding harder than it had all day.
“Yeah,” I said hoarsely. “This was a shifter.”
Benson’s face paled. “I was afraid of that.”
I dragged a hand down my face, then straightened up.
“The pack will take care of it. I’ll keep you updated,” I told him.
He nodded, grateful and tired. “Just keep me in the loop. I don’t want this turning into a panic.”
“Understood.”
