explain why the Bastard’s leathers were not marked with the scent of Mai’s blood, but it would be something to go on.
“No,” Lilf said confidently. “All loads, no matter how small, are kept separate as each person in the household prefers things cleaned in a different way. Some like fabric softener, some do not. Some like fragrances, some do not. Many have a specific preference of detergent, so as I check in the hampers—”
“You check their contents in?”
“Yes, I have a log.”
Butch stared at the doggen. “Of every piece of clothing sent to the laundry, by owner?”
“Yes, and it has notes on stains, which is how I am sure about the blood.” She tilted her head to side. “How else could I do things properly?”
Dayum. He’d hit the jackpot. “How far do the records go back?”
“Since the first load I did for the King under this roof.”
Well . . . there you go, Butch thought.
“May I see the log?” he asked. “Not because I’m doubting you, I’m just curious how it’s all done.”
And because he was double-checking her.
“Oh, yes, sire. Right this way.”
As Fritz and Lilf walked out of Syn’s suite, Butch followed along.
He was quiet as they went down a back set of stairs to the laundry facilities, but he was not on autopilot.
Quite the contrary.
He was trying to figure out how Syn had managed to slit Mai’s wrists and throat, and string her up by a meat hook . . . without getting any blood on his leathers. His knit cap. His shirt—
Butch pictured Syn coming out of the workout room, covered with sweat.
“Wait!” he exclaimed.
As both doggen halted on the landing with a start, he waved his hand back and forth. “Sorry, I didn’t mean you all. I forgot about the lockers down in the training center.”
The evidence he needed would be there.
He was sure of it.
* * *
Back at Helania’s apartment in her bedroom, Boone was naked and on his back under the covers, his female’s body tucked in tight against him. He was pretty sure she was asleep. After she had taken his vein and they had made love again in here, she had been in that post-feeding logy state, and he was happy to be her bolster as she went boneless and gave herself up to rest.
As he stared at her ceiling, he was aware they were in a holding pattern.
The door to sex was open again, and he was glad about it. But the larger issue of who they were to each other was tabled for the moment.
If she was pregnant, she was right. He was going to want to mate her and that was that. He was not going to have her and a young of his out in the world alone, no way—and it was not a case of honoring his bloodline. Hell, he wasn’t even part of his own family tree anymore, was he.
Getting disinherited was a pretty clear line in that kind of sand. But for him, taking care of her and their young, making sure any offspring of his had a stable, loving home, was a personal imperative, not one tied to the shitshow he had been born into. His sire’s performance as a father was an example of everything Boone did not want to be—
“I need to find that female.”
Boone lifted his head. “What?”
Helania rubbed her face up and down on his chest as if she were trying to stay awake. “The female who came to tell me about Isobel. Who helped me bury her. She deserves to know that the killer’s been found, and she needs to decide if she wants to be there at the end, too.”
“That makes sense.” Boone frowned. “What do we have to go on?”
“The house. The house where she took me. I need to find it, will you help me? I want to try and remember where in town it is. I checked her profile on Facebook, but there’s no address, obviously. No real name. No clues to her identity. Her picture is just a close-up of part of her face, for godsakes.”
“Did she ever get back to you? I know you said you’d messaged her.”
“Not yet, but I haven’t checked since we went out to the training center.” Helania propped her chin on her hand and looked at him. “I feel a responsibility to her. She was as upset as I was. Utterly heartbroken. Clearly, she was a very good friend of Isobel’s.”