“What?”
His face goes ashen, and guilt pricks through me, only to disappear when he scowls and says, “If that’s a joke, it’s not funny. If it’s not a joke, why the hell didn’t you tell me?”
“I just did. You want on-the-spot news? Get off your ass and stop acting like a fucking toddler dragged along on a shopping trip.”
His eyes widen, and I’m not sure whether it’s at the insult or the profanity.
“Kate is missing,” I say. “So is Elijah. That’s no coincidence.”
He exhales, leaning against the kitchen doorway. “No, pup, it isn’t. You might not like the guy, but your sister does, and there’s not much you can do about that. The lovebirds have snuck off for a little private stress relief, that’s all.”
“They aren’t a couple. They were faking it.”
“Well, then, they were faking it really well. Wolf-boy was panting after her like she was a bitch—” He stops short, rubs his mouth, shrugs. “You know what I mean. He’s got the hots for her, and if she’s not interested, she’ll have no problem telling him that. They’re fine.”
“Then where are they?” I wave around the kitchen. “This place has five rooms and an attic. They aren’t here. And she’s not going to sneak off to make out while we’re trapped in a witch’s cabin with hell hounds at the door.”
“Well, wherever she is, they’re together. He’ll look after her. Not that she needs it . . .”
“Look after her? The guy hid the fact he was a werewolf. Also hid the fact that his brother used to be in the Pack. Elijah has an agenda, and the only reason he’s with us is that I stupidly thought the fact he risked his life for Kate meant he actually did care. Apparently, that’s just what he wanted me to think.”
“Okay, so he’s an asshole. Possibly a dangerous asshole. I don’t think I’ve exchanged ten words with the guy, so I have no opinion on the exact extent of his asshole-ery. But your sister isn’t letting him drag her off somewhere. Where would they go, anyway? Those hell hounds are still at the door.”
“That would be my point,” I say through clenched teeth. “They aren’t here, and there’s no place for them to go.”
“Then they must be here. Put that nose of yours to work, and let’s find them.”
I’d asked Allan and Holly to stay upstairs, ostensibly to check the attic, but really just so I didn’t have them on my heels as I searched. Instead, I get Mason, who miraculously has the sense to keep quiet.
Kate said she was going to search the cabin. I should have realized she’d been gone too long, but I’d been caught up with my Holly conversation and then the mummy.
I follow her trail to see she did exactly what she intended. Her path loops from room to room, stopping at closets and beds and drawers, anything that might yield clues about the cabin’s owner and purpose. She didn’t find the attic—the ladder was retracted when Allan spotted the hatch, and her scent isn’t on it.
I can’t tell where Kate’s trail ends. That’s impossible with a scent that’s still fresh. I can hazard a guess, though, and I’d say it’s the bedroom because that’s where Elijah’s trail joins hers. She’d been searching in here, judging by her winding path.
That path tells a story. Kate was conducting her search, and Elijah came in. He shut the door. Then he stood in place while she kept moving. He talked to her, but she was only half-listening as she searched the room.
Was he telling her who he really is? No, she’d have stopped to listen to that. He must have been saying something that she wasn’t interested in hearing. Knowing my sister and the situation, I’m guessing the answer is “excuses.” He was excusing his lousy behavior at camp, and she kept searching the room, her actions conveying a clear not-interested message.
With her overlapping trail, I can’t tell where she stopped, but I don’t think they left the room, which makes no sense, especially if my guess is right about where they stopped.
“You want a second brain, pup?”
“I’m not a dog,” I say, barely unhinging my jaw. “If you’re going to talk to me, a little mutual respect is requested.”
Silence. When I glance over, he’s watching me, only to grunt and thud onto the bed, his gaze averted.
“If the brain comment was an insult . . .” I begin.
“It wasn’t. Yours works just fine. Faster than mine. I was asking if you wanted to bounce a theory off me. You’re puzzling over something. I might not have your brain speed, but mine has endurance. Sticky as fuck.”
Eidetic memory was part of the genetic modifications made to him. In layperson’s terms, Mason has a photographic memory.
He continues, “I’ve been thinking over everything I heard wolf-boy say, and there’s nothing there that stands out as suspicious, so I’m not sure what good my memory might do.” He shrugs. “But run your theory by me. Can’t hurt.”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
He exhales through his teeth. “Come on, pu—Danvers. Don’t go all lone wolf on me. I’m offering to help.”
“And I’m declining to be mocked. I’m very aware that my theory makes no logical sense, which is why I haven’t shared it. In case you didn’t notice, I am not in the mood to deal with your insults.”
“We’ve got ourselves a locked-room mystery. No theory is going to make sense. Just tell me.”
I hesitate. Then I say, “They were here.” I point to where I’m standing by a small rug in the middle of the room. “Kate touched that rug. I can smell her on it. Her trail comes over here where she knelt and picked up the rug. Elijah followed from where you are. He walked to this rug and stood beside it, and then”—I look up—“their trails end here.”
He rubs his mouth. “I promised no snark, so don’t take this the wrong way, Danvers. Your sister’s missing along with a guy you don’t trust. You found a horror show in the attic after escaping a horror show back at camp. You’re freaked out, so you’re missing . . .”
“The obvious?” I look over at him. “Like a hatch under the rug.”
His lips quirk in a faint smile. “Yeah, but it was a momentary lapse.” He pushes to his feet. “Let’s see . . .”
I whisk the rug away. There’s nothing beneath it.
He stops mid-step. Then he curses. “You looked under it already.”
“Yep.”
He lowers himself to his knees. “Got to be a secret hatch, then. The trick”—his gaze surveys the boards—“is to find the joint.”
I bite my tongue against saying there isn’t one. I can clearly see the boards running smooth and unbroken past the rug. I leave him to it, though, and my mood softens a little as I watch him, stretching out and running his fingers over the boards, engrossed in the mystery and forgetting to play it cool.
Seeing Mason like this, I want to shake him. Tell him to drop that “I don’t give a shit” act because nobody here cares. But that wall has been built stone by careful stone, placed and mortared over the years.