Smith’s bright blue eyes were shining with something that in any other context might have been glee.
I shot a look at Lacy, whose expression was impressed.
“Why do you say ‘they’?” Smith asked me.
I pointed at the foxtrot pattern on the carpet. “There are at least two different sizes of shoes, plus smudges that probably belong to Mr. Greyfox.” I paused. “That, and if he’s a shifter, there would have to be at least two of them, if not three.”
Smith was nodding. “What else you got for me?” he asked.
“He didn’t shift,” I said.
Smith’s eyebrows rose. “Okay?”
I shrugged. “They must have surprised him. Otherwise his survival instincts probably would have pushed him to shift.”
Smith’s expression was now thoughtful again, but in a different way. Then it cleared. “Right, you’re friends with Elliot Crane.”
I nodded back, feeling weirdly guilty about not sharing the fact that I knew this for much more personal reasons than being friends—or whatever—with Elliot. A few months ago, I would have told him that my twin was a shifter, too. But now it felt even worse to say that andnotinclude the fact that I was, too. But fear kept my mouth shut. I didn’t even have this job, so I couldn’t getfiredfrom it for being a shifter, but I wanted to actually have the job before that happened.
Apparently my life was now going to be one existential crisis after another. Most of which I’d be utterly humiliated to admit to Noah.
And that made me wonder if maybe I needed to reconsider some of my choices. Maybe I should be more like Noah—more open about being a shifter. About being queer. It wasn’t like I’ddeny it if anyone asked directly, but it still felt like not saying something was lying.
But I really wanted this job, so I said nothing.
Smith asked a few more questions, then left Lacy and I to do the actual work of documenting the scene. Shawano County didn’t have a dedicated photographer, so I pulled out my phone and started doing it myself.
“We don’t have the budget for more than one,” Lacy said, her tone both apologetic and embarrassed. “And Roger has it.”
“Has what?” I asked her.
“The camera.”
“Ah.” I went back to taking pictures. They weren’t the best—they were actually probably pretty awful, if you were a crime scene photographer, but I did my best, drawing on what Quincy had talked about from her training and what I’d seen her do at scenes. And then made a mental note to call her and interrogate her later because I had the feeling that if I got the job, this wouldn’t be the last time I’d be taking photos at a crime scene—because Lacy had said Roger had thecamera, not the photographer.
I’d taken casts of footprints in the mud, found and collected drops of blood, took fingerprints, and tracked the struggle all the way out to where the footprints gave way to the distinctive treads of three ATVs, where I took casts of the tire-tracks.
Smith was in and out of the scene constantly, moving between talking to Mrs. Greyfox and her kids, trying to get search parties going, and coming back to ask Lacy and me questions—he was constantly asking us what we thought. It was weird.
I liked it.
I wanted to be part of a team that worked together. That knew and trusted each other the way that Smith and Lacy clearly did. The way that Quincy and I had—and here, there were onlythree people and one—for now—homicide detective. And the idea that everyone would be working together… Iwantedthis.
I helpedLacy unload the truck back at the Sheriff’s Office, internally lamenting the fact that my pants were probably doomed. I’dtryto get the mud and blood out of them, but while I was pretty good at getting both substances out of most materials, grey suit pants were not generally made of the most wash-friendly of fabrics.
Maybe I’d get lucky.
And then I’d have to stitch up the tear on the left leg of the pants from where it had gotten caught on a thorny branch while I was making plaster casts of the ATV tire impressions. Assuming I actually managed to get the stains out. My shirt was definitely a goner—white cotton was the least friendly thing to get stains of any kind out of, much less blood and ground-in dirt.
“Thank you, Seth,” Lacy said, sounding relieved as we put the last of the equipment back in the rather sad room that passed for the Shawano County Crime Lab. According to Lacy, anything that actually required serious testing got sent to either the Northern Regional Crime Lab in Wausau or the State Crime Lab in Madison. They could do a few things here—blood alcohol, breathalysers, a few basic tox and substance tests—but anything complex or unusual would have to be done in one of the state labs.
I wasn’t a fan of that idea, but I suppose it made sense—I’d just previously been working in a state crime lab, so I’d been the one doing the more complex testing on behalf of the small towns in Virginia. I could live with those limitations if I had to.
We’d been assisted by a thin, shorter man with fair skin, freckles, strawberry-blond hair, and eyes that were an interesting mix of grey and brown—hazel, I suppose, but without any of the green that made Elliot’s eyes sparkle. This was Roger Marcks, the other member of the CSI team who had been at the scene of a car accident—the vehicle had struck a motorcycle and driven it off the road, leaving the scene, and the rider, for someone else to find. Someone else driving down the highway had seen the skid marks and the downed motorcycle and slowed down enough to see the crumpled form in the ditch—possibly saving the rider’s life. He was currently in critical condition. Only time would tell whether or not he managed to survive.
Roger was a little twitchy, but friendly enough, and shook my hand with a grip that told me his seeming nervousness was more of a personality quirk than any actual discomfort with people.
All three of us were sweaty by the time we got the truck unloaded and the evidence put in all of the appropriate places, to which Roger or Lacy helpfully directed me.
