“Mosby…” Mosby wasn’t the only one who was annoyed. Cabell waspissed.
Mosby turned and literally growled at Cabell, who paled underneath the purple.
So I growled back at Mosby, and his head snapped over, nostrils flaring.
It was weird, but even though Mosby had clearly tried to kill Elliot—thinking he was me—I didn’t feel particularly intimidated by him. I tilted my chin up, as though daring the other shifter to threaten me. I’m not sure where that odd courage came from—maybe the fact that I had Hart with me, or maybe because it was clear that Cabell was seriously pissed at Mosby, or maybe it was just that I’d had it with all the posturing and bullshit, but I didn’t feel threatened or intimidated by himat all.
I felt my lip curl, almost of its own volition, saliva thick in my mouth as my instincts pushed me toward a shift. I kept it back, holding tightly onto my control, forcing my lips to close.
Mosby’s chin dropped, just a fraction, but it was an acknowledgment. Of what, I wasn’t sure. That I was righteous, where he was corrupt? That I was bigger and stronger than he was? That I had more power as a shifter? I didn’t know. It felt instinctive. Primal. That chin drop immediately made me relax—a little. A very little.
“Agent Hart,” Cabell hissed out between clenched teeth once he managed to get himself back under control. “I’m going to need you and Mr. Mays to step out for a minute.”
“Oh, hell no,” came Hart’s response. “Mosby here deliberately ran a car containing a civilian off the highway with the intention of intimidation and threat at best and murder at worst. No fuckingwayam I leaving this office.” He crossed his arms over his chest.
I could hear Cabell grinding his teeth. “Mr. Mays is too close to the victim to be part of this discussion or investigation.” He glanced over at me with nervous eyes. “Beyond providing information about his observations.”
It meant he believed me. Hart had photos, of course, and Mosby had all but admitted his guilt, but I saw his point.
Hart opened his mouth, but I cut him off. “Of course, Deputy Sheriff,” I said smoothly—but coldly. I would have liked to have stood up and marched out of the room with great dignity, but the swollen and painful knee and the crutches made that impossible.
I left with as much dignity as I could muster, and Hart held the door open for me. He spared me a glance that was almost apologetic, but I knew we both knew I shouldn’t have been there.
I just really hoped that nobody managed to stop me before I got where I was going.
I satat the Dairy Queen that was not far from the Sheriff’s Office and courthouse, eating a non-dairy Dilly Bar, something I hadn’t actually been aware existed, but I’d needed to sit down somewhere, preferably in public, and even though a Diary Queen seemed like the worst place in the world for someone with alpha-gal, I’d figured I could at least get a Coke or something.
The non-dairy Dilly Bar was a pleasant surprise. I also had a root beer, a treat in and of itself.
I was waiting for James Humbolt to join me.
I had questions.
A lot of them.
He came in about a half-hour after I’d called, wearing a pair of basketball-style shorts and an extremely faded t-shirt thatreadWorld’s Best Grandpa. His grey eyes widened in a flushed face when he saw my immobilized leg and the pair of crutches leaning on the bench next to me.
“What happened?”
“Sprained my knee slipping on a root on the way down a mountain trail,” I replied.
“I—I’m sorry about…” He must have heard about Elliot. He cleared his throat. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
I ate the last bite of my Dilly Bar. “Can we go to your office? Or somewhere else private?”
“Of course.”
I gestured at the counter. “Did you want something first?” It was almost a hundred and not yet noon. An ice cream kind of day.
“Oh, I don’t—” He was looking longingly at it.
“Get yourself something,” I urged him.
He made a beeline for the counter.
Humbolt good-naturedly carried my root beer out to his car, since I wasn’t capable of carrying anything in my hands while on crutches, passing it over once I’d gotten into the passenger side of the black Mercedes. I was very careful to hold it so that the condensation would drip onto the floor mat and not anywhere else in the car, given that I was pretty sure I couldn’t even afford the mat.
I held his Blizzard—mint, with Oreos in it—while he drove, occasionally taking a bite with the red plastic spoon. “I’m taking you back to the house,” he said, surprising me. “My wife has an appointment to get to in about…” He checked the clock. “…an hour, and I’m fairly certain that our conversation is going to take longer than that. The grandkids are staying with us this weekend, and while they’re old enough to entertain themselves, somebody should be there.”
