Page 3 of Jesse (Pecan Pines #6)

“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.

His eyes were wide, haunted. Pale skin, mussed blond hair, his pants were smudged with something darker than grease.

He looked like he’d seen a ghost.

I stopped mid-step, wanting, aching, to go to him first. The instinct to comfort him was immediate, bone-deep.

Whatever had gone down, I didn’t believe for a second that Beck had caused it. He didn’t look guilty. He looked wrecked. But I didn’t have the full story yet.

And I wasn’t a rookie. Not when it came to pack matters. No matter how badly I wanted to sit next to him and say, “Hey, you’re okay. We’ve got you.” I needed to do this right.

So I forced myself to turn away and walk straight to the sheriff instead. Sheriff Benson stood near the tape, speaking to one of the patrol officers.

He looked relieved to see me. Relieved and rattled, which wasn’t a good combo on a man who usually looked carved from stone.

“Sheriff,” I said as I approached, giving him a nod.

“Jesse,” he returned, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thanks for coming. Cooper said you’d be our point of contact.”

“I’m here. What happened?” I asked.

The sheriff blew out a breath.

“Beck, he called it in. Said he found his coworker Preston unconscious on the floor. EMTs checked Preston, he’s stable. They wanted to bring him to the hospital but I told them to hold off. That’s not the worst of it,” Benson said.

I braced myself. Benson motioned for me to follow him around the side of the truck.

“Beck found a body inside the freezer,” Benson said.

Crap. I didn’t say it out loud, but my jaw clenched as we stepped past the perimeter. The air here felt heavier. Tainted. Like the space itself remembered violence.

The fridge door was open, and the body inside was covered now, a tarp pulled neatly over it. But I could smell blood, metallic and cold, clinging to the walls and my throat.

The sheriff gave me a grim nod. “You sure you want to see it?”

“No,” I said honestly. “But I need to.”

He pulled the tarp back just enough for me to see. Male. Human. Late twenties, maybe thirties. Pale from cold, eyes open and glassy.

However, it was the throat that made my stomach twist. The torn mess of flesh, the unmistakable gashes carved in deep arcs.

Claw marks.

Shifter kill.

My breath caught. My stomach lurched. This wasn’t some accident or overdose or wrong-place-wrong-time thing. This had intention. This had rage.

I stepped back, heart pounding harder than it had all day.

“Yeah,” I said hoarsely. “This was a shifter.”

Benson’s face paled. “I was afraid of that.”

I dragged a hand down my face, then straightened up.

“The pack will take care of it. I’ll keep you updated,” I told him.

He nodded, grateful and tired. “Just keep me in the loop. I don’t want this turning into a panic.”

“Understood.”

I stepped away and called Cooper immediately.

He picked up on the second ring. “Report.”

“It was a shifter kill, Coop. Torn-up throat. Preston’s unconscious but alive. Beck’s in shock. It’s… bad.”

“Damn it,” Cooper muttered. “Bring them both in. We’ll have the healers look them over. They’ll need to be questioned too. And Jesse, get them here quietly. No scene.”

“You got it,” I said.

I hung up, shoved my phone into my pocket, and finally turned toward the truck again.

Beck hadn’t moved. He still sat there, looking like someone had ripped the ground out from under him.

For a second, I just stood there, watching him. Feeling that stupid pull in my chest again, fierce and protective. Then I walked over and crouched down next to him.

“Hey,” I said gently. “I’m Jesse, from the Pecan Pines pack. I work the Brisket Delight truck. You probably don’t remember me.”

Beck didn’t respond right away, his eyes locked on the pavement. But he blinked slowly and gave the tiniest nod.

“I’m gonna be straight with you,” I said. “This whole thing? It sucks. And I’m sorry you had to be the one to find it. But you’re not alone, alright? The pack’s going to take care of you.”

His mouth opened like he wanted to say something, but nothing came out. I rested a hand lightly on his shoulder.

“We need to get Preston and you to the pack house. You’ll be safe there. We’ll figure everything out. Can you help me get him into my car?” I asked.

Another long pause, then a shaky nod. His movements were stiff as he stood, like he was still trying to wake up from a nightmare. But he helped.

Together, we carefully lifted Preston from where the EMTs had left him resting on a stretcher, wrapped in a blanket. The guy didn’t stir. He was still out cold, but breathing.

I opened the backseat, helped Beck guide him in, then shut the door gently. When I turned back, Beck was standing there like he wasn’t sure what to do next.

“You did good,” I told him. “Come on. Let’s get you to the pack house”

And with that, he climbed into the passenger seat without a word. I took the wheel, started the engine, and pulled away from the flashing lights and the curious crowd.