And learned that the woman Candy reported to, the woman who was the brains behind it all, was Candy's aunt, who went by the name of Jina Hawkins.
Only Jina Hawkins was the woman she knew as Anni Jenkins.
Chapter Twelve
"It doesn't make any sense,” Vannah said, slamming the door behind her as she walked across to the window. She shoved her hands into her pockets, her expression dark but eyes distant as she continued, “If Anni is behind these attacks, why wait six months? Why not just kill me and get it over with?"
Cade shrugged as he sat down on one of the visitor's chairs. “She wants my death as much as yours. Maybe she didn't realize I was an IIS agent until recently."
"So what's wrong with one at a time? And if she wants revenge for what happened at Rosehall, then surely she'd have to know you were IIS?"
"Maybe not. It all depends on how deeply involved she was with Rosehall."
"Anni or Jina, or whatever her real name is, wasn't at Rosehall. I'd remember her if she was."
He studied her for a moment, seeing the tension in her and wondering if its sole cause was the knowledge she'd lived above a crazed killer for six months. He had a feeling it wasn't. He'd felt the power of her assault on Candy, and he knew its source wasn't just a reflection of Candy's hunger for blood and her terror of being contained in a small space. Much of the fear in that assault had been Vannah's. The source of her fear was his fault, because he kept throwing hints at what he wanted, but he wouldn't really talk to her. Wouldn't confirm what he was feeling, or where he thought their future might lie. And not really knowing or understanding those things himself was no excuse.
Or was that in itself just another excuse?
"At least it explains how Candy spotted you that night at the club."
She nodded. “Anni was in the shop, so it's possible she saw me."
"And couldn't Anni be Nelle? It's been ten years since you've seen her. That's time enough for someone to change beyond recognition."
Vannah shook her head. “Nelle was a couple of inches taller."
"Time stoops us all, and Nelle would be over fifty by now."
She glanced at him, amusement sparking briefly in her shadowed green eyes. “Fifty isn't old for a wolf. It's barely even prime, you know that. Besides, the whole shape of her face is wrong. Anni isn't Nelle."
As much as he wanted to believe otherwise, he had to trust Vannah's judgment. Besides, he'd had a brief glimpse of Anni after the note had been left on Vannah's windshield, and he had to agree—there was little resemblance to Nelle. “Then that leaves us with no connection between her and Rosehall, unless she is connected to Jontee in some other way.” He hesitated. “Did Jontee ever mention his past when you were with him?"
The words tasted bitter on his tongue, even as he said them. It had all happened ten years ago, and yet he still couldn't get past the hurt—the anger—of that time. Was it just pride? Or was it the acidic taste of knowing that he'd never been good enough to hold her solely to himself?
Was that same fear stopping him from doing the right thing now?
Probably, he thought wearily. And it was wrong. Yes, he'd been hurt, but so had she. Too much had been left unsaid between them, and history was repeating itself. Unless he did something about it, he stood the chance of losing her all over again.
He couldn't face that a second time. He had to do something now rather than wait until after this mess was cleaned up. If he died, then at least she'd know how he really felt—the confusion, the fear, and the desperate, driving need to hold her all to himself. Now and forever.
He stood abruptly, unable to sit still, unwilling to think more than necessary. Thinking had always gotten him into trouble when it came to the emotional stuff, which is why he tended to steer away from it. But this—Vannah—was far too important to do that now.
"I mean,” he continued, “You were with him for quite a while. Surely you learned a little something about him."
She crossed her arms and shook her head. “He rarely spoke of where he came from. I knew he had family, and at least one sister, but that was about it."
He frowned. “Jontee was an only child."
She glanced at him. “Did he tell you that?"
"Yes. And there's no record of a sister on file."
"That doesn't mean anything. We both know there are reservations where wolves live and die without ever raising a blip on government records."
He walked across the room and stood beside her, his arm brushing hers lightly and somehow intimately. Heat flowed between them, warming his skin, warming his soul. “What did he tell you about his sister?"
"Nothing much.” She hesitated. “It was weird, really. We were sitting there one morning, eating breakfast, and he just said, out of the blue, that if this all goes to hell, his sister would put things right."