Page 41 of Clashing With The Grumpy Wolf

Forthefirsttimein months, I slept through the night without waking once. Six straight hours of peaceful, restoring rest.

And I know the reason for this is still fast asleep, tucked safely under the blankets.

I’ve been awake for an hour, allowing Julia to stay asleep after sharing mind-bending sex. She needs the rest and I need space to clear my head, to focus on the theft and solve this case.

What we did, what we shared, there was nothing pretend to it. This was a claim, a mating in every sense of theword. My wolf is unusually calm this morning, content in the knowledge that our mate is safe nearby, her scent permeating every corner of my home.

My mate. The thought still shocks me.

Steam rises from the mug of black coffee on my desk as I flip open my laptop.

The first thing I see is an email from my deputy, Maya Lorne.

Oh, good. The last of the background checks came in. I scan the files, about two dozen of them. After the first few, I begin to grumble. None of the vendors or staff shows any obvious red flag. Sure, here and there, we have a DUI or a misdemeanor dating from a few years, but nothing that would indicate a life of high-profile crime.

I knew it was a long shot. The type of criminal who manages to pull off a theft of this magnitude isn’t likely to be flagged by a background check. It’s still a disappointment.

Then I come to Julia’s. Nothing to see there. She doesn’t even have a speeding ticket to her name.

And that’s when I frown.

Courtney Lambrell. Julia’s young, bubbly, wide-eyed assistant.

Her file starts like the others, no surprise, nothing out of place. But halfway through the second page, something starts to itch at the back of my neck. The kind of itch I’ve learned not to ignore.

No criminal record. Fine. Not unusual, especially for a twenty-something girl fresh out of college.

But no social media, either. Not a single profile, not even a dusty Facebook page or an abandoned Twitter handle. No photos tagged by friends, no high school swim team roster, no college alum directory. No mentions in local event write-ups, honor rolls, lease agreements. Hell, not even a Pinterest board about muffins or wedding bouquets.

That itch at the back of my neck grows until my wolf’s hackles rise.

People leave traces. Even the ones who think they’re careful. Even those who try very hard to clean up their online presence. Something always comes through. But Courtney? She’s squeaky-clean. Like someone poured bleach over her entire digital existence.

That’s not clean. That’s deliberate.

I sit up straighter and start reading slower, line by line.

Her résumé says she graduated from a small liberal arts college in Maine called Briarton Hall. Never heard of it.

I flag it to check later. The agency that placed her before she worked for Julia’s old boss, some forgettable staffing firm out of Boston, did indeed confirm her references. But only over voicemail. One of the numbers goes straight to a Google Voice line. The other’s dead.

It could just be a coincidence. Nothing abnormal in a young woman dealing with a shady placement agency when looking for her first job.

Then I scroll down to the address history. That’s when my gut really starts growling.

Portland. Austin. Cleveland. Burlington. Montpelier.Five cities in five years. Never more than eight months in one spot. No long-term employment, no rental leases that pop in the state systems, no continuity. Just hop, hop, hop, like a stone skipping across a lake.

I’ve seen this before. People who move like that? They’re not chasing opportunity. They’re running from something. Or running ahead of something, catching up.

I exhale through my nose, slow and hard. My wolf’s ears prick up, alert. The beast doesn’t like it either.

I flag the file and type the note for my deputy, Maya Lorne, to dig in deeper.

Possible alias. Background too thin. Tracks wiped clean. Quiet follow-up recommended.

Then I close the file, lean back, and wrap both hands around my mug of coffee. I stare at the glow of early light inching across the windowsill.

I don’t trust people who don’t cast shadows. And I sure as hell don’t trust one lurking around Julia.