Page 8 of Jesse
“Jackson,” Cooper said into the phone, voice suddenly sharp. “Repeat that again.”
My head snapped up.
His whole posture had changed. He grew tense, alert, his spine straight. I could hear the faint, muffled voice on the other end.
With my shifter hearing, I caught snatches of words: body… festival… little brother…
I sat up fully. Body? At the festival? Cooper ended the call a moment later, his face grim. I sat upright in my chair, tension zipping through my limbs.
Cooper ended the call and looked at me with a sharp, grim expression. I didn’t like that look. It was the same one he wore when breaking bad news to the whole pack.
“Jesse,” he said, standing, “I need you to meet with Sheriff Benson. He’s already heading to the festival.”
“Why?” I asked, standing as well, pulse starting to climb.
“A body’s been found in one of the food trucks. The truck belongs to Jackson’s little brother, Beck.”
My thoughts ground to a halt.Beck?
The name hit like a bucket of cold water. Wait. Wasn’t that the guy running the food truck where I got the brisket and fries earlier?
I wracked my brain, replaying the scene. That truck had been busy, packed even.
The guy behind the counter had looked overwhelmed but determined, focused on getting orders out. Was that Beck?
I couldn’t remember exactly what he looked like. Blond maybe, kind of wiry, quiet?
He hadn’t stood out in any way, just another vendor doing his best to survive the chaos of the festival crowd.
He hadn’t looked like someone who could be connected to something… deadly.
“Wait. Coop. Why me?” I asked, the words ripping out fast.
“Because you’re already involved,” he said simply. “You know the vendors. The festival layout. You’re fast on your feet. And if this turns into something bigger, I need someone I trust to be eyes on the ground.”
I swallowed. My head spun, trying to connect the dots. Beck. A body. A murder?
“Do we know who?—”
“We don’t have full details yet,” he cut in. “But Sheriff Benson will brief you once you’re there. Keep your head down. Don’t spook the vendors. Help if you can.”
I nodded slowly, brain shifting gears from food truck manager to... something a lot messier. A lot heavier. And maybe, just maybe, something I wasn’t ready for.
But I was already turning for the door. Whatever this was, it involved the pack.
It wasn’t hard to find Beck’s food truck.
The sirens were gone, but the flashing lights weren’t. Red and blue danced across the pavement, bleeding into the festival colors like oil slicks on water.
A crowd had gathered, hushed, murmuring, straining to see past the yellow police tape strung around the truck like a warning sign from the universe itself.
I parked a little ways off and jogged over, heart pounding harder with each step.
There were two uniformed officers holding back the onlookers, but my eyes zeroed in on the one person who looked like he didn’t belong anywhere except curled up under a blanket in bed.
Beck.
He was sitting on the food truck’s step, elbows resting on his knees, hands dangling like he’d forgotten how to hold himself upright.
