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It’s too final. Too unforgiving. Especially when it steals someone who had so much to live for. Stacy told me her mom—Catherine—died at forty-three. Only forty-three years. That number and her early death won’t stop circling in my head. It doesn’t add up. Not for a woman who was healthy, active, had her shit together.

She didn’t smoke. Didn’t drink, except the occasional wine with dinner. No drugs—hell, she warned Stacy to stay far away from that crap every chance she got. She worked out regularly, watched what she ate. She was fit. She should’ve lived longer. So why the hell didn’t she?

I’m not a doctor, but something doesn’t add up. And there’s only one person I know who might have answers—Monica. My Alpha’s mate. If anyone can access the truth, it’s her.

The road curves as I descend into the valley, Shandaken sprawling out below me. I ease toward the turnoff, signal ready—but something in me hesitates.

It’s Monday morning. Monica’s probably buried under appointments, drowning in the complaints of half the town’s elderly population. I can already hear Raul’s voice barking in my head if I ask for more time off.

“Hell, no. You were in New York, getting laid. Get your ass in here.”

I almost laugh. He’s not wrong. Whatever. He’ll get over it. I ride past the valley turnoff and head for Shandaken Medical Center. It’s almost ten and if Monica’s slammed, I’ll wait, but I have to try.

I pull up outside and instantly know I’ve lucked out. The lot’s half-empty. It looks like a quiet day. Two ambulances sit in front, idle, their drivers leaning against the doors and sipping coffee while they shoot the breeze. I nod as I drive past. Pulling into a spot, I kill the engine on the Harley. The growl of the bike fades, leaving behind the soft hum of the town starting its day.

I jog up the steps, trying to collect my thoughts. I’m not exactly a poet when it comes to words. Sammy’s the smooth talker, not me. But Monica’s sharp—smarter than most people I know. I just need to say enough for her to get it. Even if my words come out clumsy.

Stepping inside, I scan the floor. A young nurse pushes a man in a wheelchair to the left. Further down the hallway, a doctor in a white coat disappears through a door. Then I spot Monica. She’s walking briskly beside a nurse, deep in conversation, eyes fixed on a patient’s chart.

“Hey there,” I call, speeding to catch her.

Her eyebrows lift in surprise.

“Ray?” She blinks, surprised. Then smiles. “Wow. Didn’t expect to see you here. You’ve been a ghost lately.”

“A redhead we both know,” I say, flicking a glance toward the nurse.

Monica’s smart and catches the hint.

“That’ll be all, Darla. Thanks.” She waits for the nurse to walk away, then turns and looks at me with narrowed eyes. “Is this about Stacy? Is she alright? She left in a rush.”

I shake my head, keeping my tone casual.

“She’s fine. Better than fine, actually,” I say with a grin that I can’t suppress. “Just got back from the city.” Monica gives me a look—part smirk, part knowing. “Anyway, I’ve been thinking…you knew her mom, right? Back before she passed?”

Her face softens, the edges of her mouth turning down.

“Yeah. That was a rough time for her. I was in med school when it happened. Stacy was just finishing high school.”

I nod slowly. “I’ve got questions, but I don’t know how to ask them.”

“Try,” she says.

“Can cancer really take someone that young?”

She doesn’t miss a beat.

“Ray, kids die from cancer. Babies. It’s ruthless. And it doesn’t give a damn how old you are. We humans—” her eyes flick to mine “—we’re not built like your kind. We’re more fragile.”

“Yeah, but…” I frown. “Catherine was strong. Healthy. She worked out four days a week. Stacy doesn’t remember a single vice.”

“Sure, it helps,” Monica says with a shrug, “but there’s no such thing as a guarantee.”

My gut twists, but I push on. I don’t know why but something about this entire thing bugs me.

“Did she take her husband’s name? After marriage?”

“Yes,” Monica replies. “Her maiden name was LaVine.”