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He nodded thoughtfully. "So why did you call me?" He was willing to have a talk with the family, but he suspected if that was all she needed, it would have been a cold day in hell before she called him - she had her brothers for that.
"Because of the photos. " She held up the folder in invitation.
He had to drive a couple of blocks before he found a convenient parking place and pulled over, leaving the engine running.
He pulled six photos off a clip that attached them to the back of the folder she held and spread them out to look. Interest rose up and he wished he had something more than photos. It certainly looked like more damage than one lone boy could do: ten boys maybe, if they had sledgehammers. The holes in the walls were something anyone could have done. The holes in the ten-foot ceiling, the executive desk on its side in three pieces, and the antique oak chair broken to splinters and missing a leg were more interesting.
"The last time I saw something like that . . . " Stella whispered.
It was probably a good thing she couldn't bring herself to finish that sentence. He had to admit that all this scene was missing was blood and body parts.
"How old is Devonte?"
"Sixteen. "
"Can you get me in to look at the damage?"
"No, they had contractors in to fix it. "
His eyebrows raised. "How long has it been?"
"It was the twenty-first. Three days. " She waved a hand. "I know. Contractors are usually a month wait at least, but money talks. This guy has serious money. "
That sounded wrong. "Then why are they taking in a foster kid?" She looked him in the eye for the first time and nodded at him as if he'd gotten something right. "If I'd been the one to vet them, I'd have smelled a rat right there. Rich folk don't want mongrel children who've had it rough. Or if they do, they go to China or Romania and adopt babies to coo over. They don't take in foster kids, not without an agenda. But we're desperate for foster homes . . . and it wasn't me who approved them. "
"You said the boy wouldn't talk. To you? Or to anybody?"
"To anybody. He hasn't said a word since the incident. Won't communicate at all. "
David considered that, running through possibilities. "Was anyone hurt except for the boy?"
"No. "
"Would you mind if I went to see him now?"
"Please. "
He followed her directions to the hospital. He parked the car, but before he could open the door, she grabbed his arm. The first time she touched him.
"Could he be a werewolf?"
"Maybe," he told her. "That kind of damage . . . "
"It looked like our house," she said, not looking at him, but not taking her hand off him either. "Like our house that night. "
"If he was a werewolf, I doubt your Mr. Linnford would have been able to knock him out without taking a lot of damage. Maybe Linnford is the werewolf. " That would fit, most of the werewolves he knew, if they survived, eventually became wealthy. Children were more difficult. Maybe that was why Linnford and his wife fostered children.
Stella jerked her chin up and down once. "That's what I thought. That's it. Linnford might be a werewolf. Could
you tell?"
His chest felt tight. How very brave of her: she'd called the only monster she knew to deal with the other monsters. It reminded him of how she'd stood between him and the boys, protecting them the best that she could.
"Let me talk to Devonte," he said, trying to keep the growl out of his voice with only moderate success. "Then I can deal with Linnford. "
The hospital corridors were decorated with garlands and green and red bulbs. Every year Christmas got more plastic and seemed further and further from the Christmases David had known as a child.
His daughter led him to the elevators without hesitation and exchanged nods with a few of the staff members who walked past. He hated the way his children aged every year. Hated the silver in their hair that was a constant reminder that eventually time would take them all away from him.
