"Astrid." Her voice drops lower.
My throat tightens. "I need you to leave."
"I have book club tomorrow," she protests. "And the garden?—"
"Mom, please." I rest my forehead against the cool metal of my locker. "I'm coming over tonight. Be packed when I get there."
I end the call before she can argue further.
The locker room door swings open and Ghost enters, his face lined with concern. He's still moving carefully, favoring his left side where the chimera struck him. He and Sherlock are both on desk duty for two weeks while I get the glorified rookies to babysit.
I hate working with strangers.
"You okay?" he asks, leaning against the lockers.
"Fine." The lie comes automatically.
"Bullshit." He crosses his arms. "You've been fixated on those Missouri reports since we hit U.S. airspace. What's going on?"
I hesitate, then pull up the satellite imagery on my tablet. "The wolf shifter's movement pattern. Three more appearances, each time closer to my mom's place."
Ghost studies the map, his expression grim. "You think it's hunting her specifically?"
"I think it's hunting something, and I don't want her anywhere near it when it finds whatever it's looking for."
"Hayes won't let you near this case," he reminds me gently.
"I know," I say, shoving necessities into my go-bag. "But he gave me leave this afternoon and evening. I’m going home to make my mom pack a bag and leave."
Ghost grabs my arm. "Blades, think about this. Going rogue against Hayes?—"
"It's not going rogue. It's visiting my mother. He told me to go." I zip the bag closed with more force than necessary. "If something happens to be hunting in her area while I'm there... well, that's just coincidence."
He sighs, releasing my arm. "Be careful. And check in, okay? Every six hours or so help me, I'm calling it in."
I meet his gaze, grateful for his concern even as I resent needing it. "Deal."
As I shoulder my bag to leave, Ghost calls after me: "If you find this thing, don't engage alone. Call for backup. Promise me."
I don't answer as the door swings shut behind me.
The GUIDE parking garage is nearly empty when I reach my car, most agents already home for the night. I toss my go-bag onto the passenger seat, program my mother's address into the GPS even though I know the route by heart, and pull out onto the street. Rush hour traffic crawls for the first thirty minutes until I finally break free of the city's gravitational pull and hit the interstate. Only then do I allow myself to press the accelerator past the speed limit, eating up miles while the sun sinks toward the horizon.
The highway stretches ahead, endless black ribbon cutting through rolling hills that would be beautiful if I could focus on anything besides the gnawing fear in my gut. I've been driving for over an hour, the Missouri border fifteen minutes behind me. With each mile, that strange electric sensation grows stronger beneath my skin—not quite pain, but an awareness that feels unavoidable.
My playlist cycles through songs I'm not really hearing, until my phone rings through the car's speakers. Sanderson.
"Anything?" I ask without preamble.
"Did a drive-by an hour ago," his gruff voice answers. "Nothing out of the ordinary."
"Any gossip about the shifter today?"
"Nothing official." He pauses. "But my contact at the sheriff's office mentioned multiple deer carcasses fifteen miles west of your place. Whatever it is, it's feeding."
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
"I'm about an hour out. If you hear anything else?—"
