“How does Clay reconcile it?”
“He doesn’t.” A low rumble, and Elena’s voice faded as she moved the phone to speak to him. “Well, you don’t. You just say the notes are obviously fake.”
He said something, again too low for me to hear.
“Yeah, yeah,” Elena said. “Get back to us when you have an actual theory.”
“Do you have a theory?” I asked.
“Nothing but the obvious. The killer sends the note. The guy who gets it is a young reporter, who decides it’s a crank and files it away. Second note comes thirty years later, and he does an ‘oh, shit.’ He can hand over both notes and take his lumps. Or he can just hide the second. He picks option B. The third note comes thirty years later again, which means our guy is long retired. Still alive? Maybe. He gets it, hides it, and after his death a family member finds it. When the call goes out for stories on Amityville, whoever has the letters decides it’s time to bring them out, maybe make some cash.”
Clay muttered something.
She spoke to him again. “Like I said, get back to us when you have a theory. Until then—”
A clatter, phone falling. Elena retrieved it.
“Sorry,” she said.
“Flying pillow?”
“Yeah. I’ll pay him back later.” The sound of footsteps, as if she was crossing the room. A creak as she settled into Jeremy’s chair. “That’s all I’ve got. As for the killer, you have a sixty-year span between three murders. Not impossible if he started young and ended old, but that would be unusual. Real-world explanation? Father-son team, son killing the last and getting Pops to write the note—or forging it himself. Supernatural explanation? More possibilities there, none of them very plausible.”
“Vampires,” Clay said, raising his voice loud enough to be heard this time.
Elena made a rude noise in response.
“Could be,” Clay said. “Explains the timeline.”
“But not the stabbing. Beyond that? Demons, spirits, magic … the list goes on.”
It did. That was the problem.
When I got off the phone, Jeremy was still engrossed in his sketch. I watched him off to the side, so he wouldn’t notice. I’ve dated plenty of guys who, if they caught me looking, would flex and primp like a cover model. Jeremy is not one of them. He isn’t particularly shy; he’s just not good with direct attention.
He’d started undressing for bed. His shirt was off, but he’d stopped there. He was lying on the covers, which meant I had a very nice view of a very nice body. There’s nothing quite like werewolves for drool-worthy physiques. They have the kind of metabolism for which I’d seriously consider sacrificing virgins.
I slipped out of my dress and crawled into bed on his other side, being careful not to disturb him. He seemed to have frozen there, only the scratch of his pencil giving him away.
I resisted the urge to reach up and brush the hair from his neck. There wasn’t much to brush anyway. Normally, haircuts are one of those annoying necessities Jeremy skips as long as possible, but he’d gotten it done for my shoot. He always did, since a reporter once noticed him at one of my shows and used “bohemian” in her description. Jeremy decided he was getting a little old for the shaggy look. I disagree. I love it when his hair gets a little long, dark locks threaded with silver, hanging boyishly in his eyes and over his collar. Sexy as hell. But if it makes him self-conscious on a shoot, I keep my mouth shut and wait for it to grow out again.
The stylist—or, more likely, the local barber—had left a bit in the back, just a small lock that curled up, as if trying to hide. I wanted so badly to tug it out. But I kept still, resting there, until the pencil scratches stopped. He lifted his head, looked around, and then craned over his shoulder to see me.
“When did you finish with …?” He sighed. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” I shifted up and leaned over him. “Can I see?”
He handed me the sketchbook without hesitation. I remember shortly after I met him, catching him drawing and asking to see it. He’d deflected me and slid the book back into his bag before I could ask again. I’d been hurt by that. I’d come to realize, though, that I’d been rude to ask—it was a work-in-progress. He shared those raw beginnings only with his Pack, and only if they expressed an interest.
This new sketch was of the twins watching a hole in a hillside. Logan lay stretched on his stomach in the long grass. Kate was perched over the hole, balanced precariously as she bent to look upside-down into the dark.
I smiled. “It’s adorable. Even if we know why they’re really looking in there. Sussing out a potential meal.”
“Actually, potential predatory competition. It’s a fox hole.”
I noticed the faintest outline of a snout deep in the dark hollow. “Seriously?”
“Yes. They found it when we were hiking upstate. A fox kit was in there. Cowering in terror, I think.”
I laughed. That only made the picture even more ironic, with Jeremy being part kitsune. I imagine there were times, growing up surrounded by boisterous werewolves, when he felt like that fox kit, shrinking back into his hole before he got trampled.
The twins knew that Jeremy and their parents were werewolves. Elena and Clay decided to tell them last winter, when it became obvious Kate and Logan weren’t going to make it to teen-hood before realizing their family wasn’t quite like the other kids’.
Were they werewolves themselves? It was hard to say. Unlike Jeremy, Clay and Elena were both bitten, not hereditary werewolves. But having two werewolf parents wasn’t exactly normal, either, and it was clear the kids had inherited at least some secondary characteristics. Even before they knew, they’d have been watching that fox hole, not quite sure why they found it so fascinating.
“You will do a painting of it, right?” I said.
“I will.”
“Personal or for sale?”
“I’d say personal, but Kate has started asking why I don’t sell any of my paintings of her and Logan. She’s starting to feel slighted.”
“I can see that.”
“Then you’ll have to talk to her, because Mom and Dad cannot fathom why she’d ever want her picture hanging in a gallery.” He picked up the sketch. “But this would be a good one. It doesn’t show their faces, which is a must if I sell it.”
“It’ll amuse Elena, I’m sure. An adorable painting of her innocent little naturalists.”
He smiled. “Yes, she’ll like that. Perhaps I’ll use it for shows, put an exorbitant price on it, so it will never sell.”
“Oh, it will, and Kate will be thrilled that she’s worth so much.”
“She will.” He put the sketchbook on the table. “Now, if we’re done talking about the children …”
“You’re exhausted and want to sleep.”
His hand snaked over my waist, pulling me closer. “Not exactly.”
“Good.”
I slid into his arms.
TEN
I slept until almost noon. Considering I’d be up all night shooting the show, that was perfectly reasonable, but I’m not an early riser at the best of times. This just gave me a good excuse.
Jeremy was reading when I woke. He’d likely been up for hours already—quietly dressing, slipping out, and grabbing breakfast before settling in to read.
I placed a quick call before my shower.
“Cortez Winterbourne Investigations,” a voice sang. “When dead loved ones twitch, it’s time for a witch.”