Page 2 of The Evening Wolves

The man shook his head.

Emery nodded and took out his phone to call emergency services.

“You the friend?” the man asked.

As Emery raised the phone to his ear, one of the streetlights sparked and went out. “She didn’t have any friends.”

2

“It’s a simple request, Nico.” Emery pushed the pen and paper across the kitchen counter. “Print legibly, please.”

Nico sighed and looked at John. “Where are Noah and Rebeca? Why isn’t anyone bailing me out?”

It was the Sunday before Christmas, and in theory, everyone was still buoyed up with holiday cheer. That was probably because most of them hadn’t spent the previous day wading through clusters of human misery. Emery tried to focus on the present. The house was warm and full of light, with holiday decorations and the Christmas tree in pride of place (Colt had taken charge of decorating it), and sweet with the smell of baking cookies. Colt had been determined to frost sugar cookies, and now he stood watching the oven, turning the light on and off in thirty-second intervals, muttering to himself about the color of the Christmas tree-shaped cookies Evie and Lana had helped cut out. He’d set two timers. In between checking the cookies, he also spent a fair amount of time touching his hair, which had gotten long over the last few months, and which he was clearly dying for Nico to comment on. Biscuit waited patiently next to him, clearly under the belief that she would eventually be rewarded, either by accident or design.

“Out of town,” John said with a laugh. “You’re on your own.”

“He’s your husband.”

“Is it Chase again?” Emery asked.

Nico scowled. He was, in a turn of events that was becoming more and more common, dressed something like an adult: slim chinos, a wine-colored sweater, his shaggy hair longer than Emery remembered and spilling over his collar. “Shouldn’t you have him trained? Shouldn’t he know all his commands by now? Sit, stay, quiet.”

“We’ve been working on sit,” John-Henry said.

“Did you know you have to train a dog to speak before you can train it to be quiet?” Colt asked without looking away from the oven.

Groaning, Nico sank down onto the stool. “God, never mind.”

“You’re all hilarious,” Emery said, bumping Nico with the pen and paper. “Now write.”

“Is Nico telling you about his date?” Auggie asked as he came into the kitchen. His dark hair was dusted with snow, and he was shrugging out of a jacket that managed to look both expensive and understated at the same time. It went with the rest of the package: the soft brown of Auggie’s skin, the stunner smile, the fact that, even though he was shorter than average, he was ridiculously good-looking. A few months before, a killer had cut his face with a knife. Although the scar was still red and raised as it healed, thanks to a good plastic surgeon, it was only a fine line that ran straight down his cheek. When it healed completely, Emery guessed, it would barely be visible. Emery didn’t particularly care about that, though; he was looking forward to Auggie’s thirties, particularly to the first time Auggie saw a wrinkle.

At the words, Nico sat up, horror streaking across his face.

“It’s a date?” John asked.

“You said it was coffee,” Emery said.

This, apparently, was enough to break Colt’s attention—if only for a moment. He looked surprisingly hurt as he glanced at Nico and asked, “How old is he?”

Emery looked at his son.

Colt blushed, mumbled, “Hi, Mr. Lopez,” and turned his stare back to the oven.

“If necessary,” Emery said, “I can find his Social on my own, but I’ll need a first and last name. Date of birth would be ideal.”

“It’s not a date,” Nico said.

“I thought you were staying at his—” Admittedly a bit late, Auggie managed to stop. He put a hand to his neck as color rushed into his face, and then he said, “Um.”

Nico set his glare to murderous.

“You’re staying at his place?” Emery asked.

“Thank you, Auggie.”

“I thought they knew!”

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