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Deke blinked, feeling his shoulders stiffen. “Say again?”
“Now that we’ve established that the person doing this wants to screw with you, we can be pretty sure they’ll be paying close attention to you,” said Tate. “They’ll want to know they’re getting to you.”
Well, they were.
“If it is one of these six shifters,” Tate continued, “they’ll drink in every moment of you questioning them, Deke; drink in your anger and confusion and whatever else you’re feeling. For them, it’s a game—one they’re winning. They’ll be loving that they have this power over you. They’ll be all smug at the idea that you’re raging at not only what they’ve done but at having no clue who they are.”
Deke sighed. “What you’re saying is … you think that the best way to hit back at them is to act like I don’t give enough of a shit to bother questioning any suspects.”
“Exactly,” confirmed Tate. “I think you should go on about your day as normal. Act like what happened with Journee ain’t a blip on your radar. Make this asshole think they’re gonna need to try harder to get to you, because we need them to slip up and make a mistake. And the sooner they do it the better. We don’t know what their motive is, but we know that they want to get into your head and fuck with it. Don’t know about you, but I personally don’t feel inclined to do anything they might like.”
Grinding his teeth, Deke reluctantly dipped his chin. “I’ll sit out of the questioning.” His cat growled, displeased at not being included.
Tate gave a nod of satisfaction. “I know this isn’t easy for you, but it’s the right move to make. He’s several steps ahead of us. We need to fucking catch up. Fast.”
Driving home from the center later that day, Bailey flicked a look at Havana via the car’s rearview mirror. “Why are you scowling at your phone?”
The devil lifted her head. “I just heard from Tate. He and Luke questioned the six people implicated by our resident catfisher.”
Twisting in the front passenger seat to look at the Alpha, Aspen spoke, “And?”
“And nothing.” Havana pocketed her cell. “They all claimed they had no hand in the creation of the profiles, and none gave Tate any reason to believe they were lying.”
Bailey felt her lips thin. “Shit.”
She hadn’t exactly been confident that Tate would identify the culprit during basic questioning—the asshole was too careful, he wouldn’t easily give himself away—but she’d hoped that maybe he would have some luck. “I’ve gone backwards and forwards in my head trying to work out what’s going on, but I’m stumped.”
“Same here,” declared Havana, returning her gaze to the scenery outside.
The long stretch of narrow road cut through a rural area. There wasn’t much traffic at the moment. But there would be later when rush hour hit.
Looking somewhat sulky, Aspen said, “I’m not in the mood to cook tonight. Anyone else interested in grabbing takeout food on the way home? We could grab some for our guys, too, obviously.”
“I’m in,” Havana told her. “You up for it, Bailey?”
Flexing her grip on the steering wheel, Bailey awkwardly cleared her throat. “Uh, I can’t. I’ve got plans.”
“You have plans?” asked Aspen. “What plans?”
Scratching at her cheek, Bailey adopted a casual tone as she replied, “I agreed to meet Deke at the diner.”
Havana leaned forward as far as her seatbelt would allow. “The diner?” she echoed, a spark of excitement in her voice.
“Yes.” Bailey had thought he might cancel after what happened earlier—he’d looked eager to rip someone’s face off. But she’d texted him before she left the center to see if he wanted to take a raincheck, and he’d told her he saw no need to cancel.
Aspen angled in her seat to face Bailey, all eagerness. “So, basically, you guys are going on a date?”
Bailey frowned. “What? No.”
“Well, what else do you call it?” asked the bearcat.
“A simple meet-up.”
Havana snorted. “Simple my ass.”
Ugh, did these women need to complicate everything? “It’s no different than when I go out for dinner with you guys,” Bailey defended, paraphrasing Deke.
“Oh, it’s very different, considering we’re not fucking you,” said Havana.
Bailey shot her a look in the rearview mirror. “What does that have to do with anything?”
The devil rolled her eyes. “It’s a date, Bailey—admit it.”
“It isn’t, just as it isn’t a date when he and I sometimes eat together at his place.”
Havana raised a finger. “Those two things are not the same. One happens in public. The other doesn’t. For him to take you out, he’s making a statement to all and sundry—including you—that you’re not a mere bedmate.”
“But he’s not taking me out,” Bailey told her. “He asked me to meet him there.”
“Don’t split hairs. This is a date.” Havana planted a hand on Bailey’s headrest. “Let me ask you this: Did any of your other bed-buddies take you places?”
