I was about to protest that this was different, but Elliot continued.
“There’s a lot of domestic violence on the Reservation,” he said, his voice serious. “And addiction. The one feeds the other. But even when women and children are in danger from their own families, they won’t go to the white man for help, even if there is a genuine desire to actually help.”
I thought about that, about the number of times I’d encountered victims of domestic violence—those who were still alive—who refused help from the police or social workers who were on site to help.
Supposedly, anyway.
I’m not so naïve that I think that every cop or even social worker actually meant well. Living with Elliot reminded me of that every time I saw the scar on his throat.
I might work with the police, but I knew that they were sometimes as much the problem as the solution.
“If it is a coded message,” I said aloud. “What is she trying to tell me?”
“No fucking clue,” he told me. “But I’ll try to help you figure it out.”
15
Seth Mays
Will you meet me at the house later?
Elliot Crane
Of course!
When?
A couple hours?
I’ll be there.
I was running very late,having gone to see Humbolt to update him on the note and to check in to see whether or not there had been any progress on Noah’s case.
The answer had been not exactly—Gwen Walsh was optimistic about Noah’s chances, particularly in the aftermath of Mosby’s arrest. She had recruited Humbolt, whose mildly alarmed expression suggested he was less comfortable with his new role as civil litigant on top of being an assistant defense attorney for a murder case than she was. Walsh, on the other hand, was almost gleeful about the civil suit she intended to fileagainst Augusta County as soon as she got a judge to dismiss the murder case.
Humbolt hadn’t had anything helpful to offer about Momma’s letter any more than he’d had about her will, but he’d made a copy of it for her file.
I wanted to go up there to see if I could figure out anything more. What Momma’s message meant, if anything. The mention of the loose floorboard upstairs in Noah’s room—then Rachael’s room—had me wondering if there was something there. When Noah and I had been little, he’d hidden things in there. Shiny stones, a squirrel skull, a small plastic toy blue dog we’d once found on the street during a trip to Staunton, scraped and stained by having been cast aside, intentionally or otherwise.
I couldn’t think of any other reason why Momma would specifically call my attention to it.
When had she written the note? Days before she died? Weeks? Months? It couldn’t have been longer than that, given the lack of weathering and smudging of the note.
Did she know my father would kill her?
I rounded the corner of the gravel drive, hoping Elliot wasn’t too annoyed that I was a good two hours later than I said I’d be.
I pulled up, parked, and stepped out of the driver’s side door, then immediately froze.
I hadn’t seen him in sixteen years, hadn’t ever smelled him in wolf form, and yet Iknew.
And then I smelled the blood.
Elliot’s blood.
Rage and fear spiked through me, igniting my blood with energy.Elliot is mine.
I stripped off my t-shirt, undid the knee brace, and dropped both shorts and underwear. I needed to shift, and I needed to do itfast. Getting caught up in my own clothes wasn’t an option—soI pushed myself into the electric current running through veins and bones and muscle.
