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The two men exchange wary glances and then turn to me.
“Why do you think she’s involved in this?” Maxwell asks me. He crosses his arms over his chest and stares at me so intensely that if I was a younger wolf, I’d be quivering.
But I’m not a younger wolf, and it will take more from Maxwell than a little bit of fussing and feather ruffling to get me worked up. I’ve seen the way Maxwell cares for my dad. After my mother passed away, Maxwell never left my dad’s side. I didn’t realize how close the two of them were, at first, but it quickly became obvious. No one in the pack said a damn word about it, which is good because I’d hate to have to kick the asses of some of the younger wolves. There will be a time and place for that.
“Her books feature some really similar circumstances to what’s been happening,” I point out.
“Like the school?” Heather asks, looking over at me. “Is that what you mean?”
“It’s a start,” I tell her. “Your books describe the inner-workings of our academy.”
“Really?” She asks, and she looks confused. Then she turns back to my dad. “So what’s going on? Flynn said someone went missing. Is that what you mean?”
“Why don’t you tell us?” My father says. “Since you seem to know so much.”
“I don’t think I know as much as you suspect that I do,” she says carefully. “But I’m happy to answer any questions about my book that you may have.”
“Why don’t we start with why you decided to write about wolves in the first place?” Maxwell asks.
“Uh,” she blushes and looks down at her hands. Suddenly, they seem like the most interesting thing in the world to her.
Why?
“Heather,” I say sternly, and she looks up at me and sighs. Then she turns back to my dad and
Maxwell.
“It’s going to sound crazy.”
“Crazier than a writer being responsible for the attacks on our pack?” My dad glares at me.
“Um, well, you see...” Her voice trails off, and there’s a new scent mixed in with Heather’s intoxicating smells: embarrassment.
What does she have to be embarrassed about?
She’s not feeling ashamed. No. This is something else. It’s something much more innocent, if I had to guess.
“Heather?”
“Um, I guess I’ve just been obsessed with wolves for a long time,” she finally says. “I just think werewolves are cool.”
A half truth.
Interesting.
“Try again,” I demand. My father and Maxwell both look at me, surprised. Okay, so maybe I should be more gentle with the human, but we don’t really have the time for that, do we?
“I have dreams about wolves,” she blurts out.
At this, we all stop and stare at her.
Dreams?
“Explain yourself,” my father says.
“Um, well, when I was 12 or 13, maybe, I guess I just started having these dreams about shifters. That was what inspired me to become a writer. I just wanted to get the stories out of my head, you know.”
“What kind of dreams?” Maxwell prods.
