The restaurant door opens, light music drifting out. I watch it closely as a large group of people walk out, laughingand talking over each other. I check all the faces to make sure Sam isn’t one of them.
When I’m sure he isn’t running from whoever he’s meeting here all of fifteen minutes later, I go back to my phone. There are twenty-five messages on the group chat, no doubt about some new wedding thing Matt is freaking out about.
I open it, and of course, Matt is right there, worried about his vows. There is a series of helpful suggestions from Marcus, his wife, and Cami, and extremely unhelpful ones from Bree and Sloan.
Matt: I’m not making him promise to cook for my friends in my vows, Sloan!
Sloan: Why not? The assurance won’t hurt.
Bree: And it’s a compliment. Aren’t you supposed to compliment people in vows?
Me: I remember u asking Cami to promise she’ll clean every Sunday in urs.
Bree: Exactly! You’ve got to make those things official while you still can.
Cami: My gammy was horrified.
Bree: Eh, she loves me. She made me that key lime pie last time we visited.
Cami: Because someone told her that’s her worst dish.
Bree: Well, you still love me, don’t you?
Cami: Do I have a choice?
Bree: No, honey. And she cleans every Sunday. You see my point?
Sloan: So, cooking for friends is making the list. What else?
Matt: You guys are useless. I don’t know why I asked you in the first place.
Me: Because u have no other friends.
Sloan: Because Oliver saved you from a life of a sad recluse.
Bree: Hey, you should add that to your vows. He’ll love it.
Matt: USELESS!!!
I set my phone down with a smile on my face. But it quickly turns into a frown when the door opens again, thistime with Sam sauntering out with a firm grin on his lips. A big man, taller and broader than him, follows him out in a tan suit and blue tie.
It doesn’t take me long to clock him as a werewolf. The way he stands in front of Sam, relaxed but prepared to strike all at the same time, screams predator. The way his broad muscles fill his suit, that’s something you can’t achieve in a gym. It’s hard to explain, but when it’s your job to be on the lookout for werewolves, you develop an instinct to spot them from miles away.
I take out the camera that I borrowed from Sloan and take a few high-resolution pictures of the man.
I watch them as they share an awkward goodbye while waiting for their cars, then Sam is off. I follow him back to Elliot’s place without any shady detours. Then drive back home.
As soon as I’m in, I forward the pictures to the Bureau tech guy to find out who the werewolf is. We’re almost sure the new Vigilante Hunter is a werewolf because of how fearless they’ve been with the murders. And now Sam, the prime suspect, is meeting a strange werewolf for dinner?
Can’t be a coincidence.
Chapter Seventeen
Cracked Stories, Crashed Plans, and Collapsing Composure
Elliot
When I hear the keypad beeping, I quickly close the tracking app on my phone and throw it onto the couch for good measure. Switching on the television, I lean back, doing my best impression of a completely unbothered person who definitely isn’t keeping an eye on Sam’s every movement, as a Chappell Roan song fills the room.
