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When I typed my information into the log-in fields, my in-box had sprouted new messages like acne on a One Direction fan. Thirty-eight new messages starting weeks before, right around the time I ran out of Emerson’s and saved a werewolf. The subject lines were all the same: “FOUND YOU, BITCH.”
I knocked my foam coffee cup from the table, splashing scalding liquid across my thighs and barely noticing the burn. My stomach pitched, and the floor seemed to tilt underneath me. Hands shaking, I clicked on the first one. It was short and to the point: “I found you, bitch. Did you really think you could run from me? Do you think living in the ass end of nowhere will keep me from finding you? Don’t you worry, I’m on my way. We’ll be seeing each other real soon.”
Glenn was smart enough not to sign it, and the e-mail address was listed as [email protected]/* */. I knew he would be smart enough not to send the message from his home computer. If by some insane chance I went to the cops, they wouldn’t be able to trace it back to his IP address.
Also, I found it a little distressing that there were so many people using gotchubitch as an e-mail user name that Glenn had to add numerals to it.
I highly doubted that this was some unfortunate cyber-coincidence, a misdirected message, or a prank. I was able to fight through the initial wave of panic, the cold flush that spread from my heart to my limbs, making it impossible to move my fingers the way I should. I knew this was coming, I reminded myself. Red-burn had warned me that he was getting closer. This e-mail campaign was most likely a bluff. He was probably thousands of miles away. Because if he’d really found me, he would be here, right now, telling me what an ungrateful cow I was as he dragged me back to Tennessee.
I took a long, lung-stretching breath and forced it out through my nostrils, then clicked on the other messages. The next few e-mails were more conciliatory. He missed me. His life just didn’t work without me. He didn’t know why I’d run away, but he would do anything he could to make our relationship work. Wouldn’t I please contact him so he would stop worrying about me? The messages ran in cycles—angry, demanding, pitiful, lonely, and then back to vicious and threatening.
He couldn’t scare me, I told myself, hoping that eventually, I would believe it. I could fight him now. I could escape before he even realized we were in the same room. I wasn’t the same naive, trusting girl he’d married. He didn’t even know me anymore. I wasn’t that same person. And there was Caleb to consider.
Oh, God, what if he hurt Caleb? I knew it wasn’t likely, what with the whole turns-into-a-giant-apex-predator issue. But even werewolves had to yield to bullets, and Glenn wasn’t above bringing a gun to a werewolf fistfight.
Still in a bit of a daze, I gathered our clean clothes together, folded them on automatic pilot, and shuffled back to the motel. In an unexpected turn of fortune, I was able to walk a city block in a rural small town without being attacked or harassed by hooligan lumberjacks. I tried to appear as calm as possible as I walked back to the motel. It wouldn’t do to let Caleb see me freaked out. He would ask all kinds of questions, and I would give him answers, because my verbal filters were shaky enough that I’d tell him everything. And then . . . I didn’t know what would happen then.
I stopped at the tiny general store and found turkey jerky and some coffee, because Caleb hated the brand that the motel kept on hand. I took several deep breaths outside of our motel-room door and pushed it open with a pleasant smile fixed on my face.
I found Caleb tossing our clothes into our bags. The laptop and the rest of the equipment were already packed and sitting by the door.
“What’s going on?” I asked, dropping the grocery bags by my laptop.
“We’re going home,” he said.
For a terrifying moment, I thought he meant the valley. How was I supposed to explain that? How was I going to casually drop, Oh, by the way, I know your family. And that you’re a supernatural creature. Surprise!
“H-home?” I asked.
“Well, home base. Suds’s bar in Fairbanks, the Suds Bucket. I’ve had a couple of urgent e-mails from him about a few cases, so I need to go check in.”
“Can’t you just call him?” I asked, thinking about this new development. Fairbanks would bring me closer to Anchorage but not close enough. It was still a six-hour drive in good weather.
“Suds is getting anxious about a couple of guys we’re looking for, big payouts and no developments. So I need to go talk shop with him for a while. We’ll leave at first light, stay there with him in a non-motel room, which will be awfully nice. It’ll only take a few days, and then we’ll be on the road to Anchorage, just like I promised.”
“OK,” I said, nodding, suddenly distracted by the neatly folded pile of fresh laundry. One of Glenn’s biggest gripes about my housekeeping was my sloppy, haphazard laundry methods. Clean clothes had to be precisely folded or they would end up thrown in a big messy pile in the closet for me to fold all over again. So when I left, my first act of rebellion was to throw my socks into the drawer in a massive sock ball. But now my socks were matched and folded with military precision.
“No arguments, no negotiations, just ‘OK’?”
“Uh-huh,” I said, nodding again, chewing my lip. E-mails. All it took was a few pissy e-mails from my ex-husband, and I had retreated right back into “life with Glenn” coping mechanisms. What did that say about my progress so far? What did it say about my ability to survive on my own?
I could send Caleb after Glenn.
The thought took root as quickly and stealthily as a poisonous weed. I had a big bad werewolf on my side. He could make my Glenn problem disappear with a snap of his claws. No more running. No more hiding. No more fear. All I had to do was ask. It was on the tip of my tongue.
“Hey.” Caleb squeezed my arm gently. My eyes snapped up to his face and its expression of concern. “Are you all right?
I gave him a weak smile. I couldn’t ask that of him. I couldn’t ask Caleb to kill for me. I wouldn’t put blood on his hands, or mine. I would have to handle this myself.
“You spaced out a little bit on me,” Caleb said.
“I’m fine, just not looking forward to another couple of hours in the truck. That’s all.”
He grinned, plopping down on the bed and pulling me into his lap. “Well, that’s because I haven’t introduced you to the wonders of my Conway Twitty CD collection.”
What little smile I was able to produce disappeared, even as he nuzzled my neck. “If there is any good in this world, you are kidding.”
Later that night, while Caleb slept, I sat up, thinking over the e-mail issue. How had Glenn found my e-mail address? Before I’d stumbled out of the Internet café, I’d checked the log-in history and didn’t see any suspicious account activity. Had he figured out the password? How much longer would it be before he tried to take over the account?
