"But you read his mind, didn't you?"
"Yes. And I have no doubt he did murder those people. But he didn't do it alone."
"What makes you so sure?"
"His own memories. He was always handing the drained blood to someone else to drink. He never drank it himself—hated the taste of it."
"As most wolves do.” Anton paused. “You never saw this other person?"
"Never."
"So were his memories faulty, or erased?"
"Knowing what I know now, I'd say deliberately smudged. Erasing them totally would have been too obvious."
"So who else do you think was involved?"
"The one woman we could never track down.” He took out the photo of the woman and handed Anton the rest of the file. “Nelle James."
"The great unknown.” Anton tucked the folder under his arm. “Have you talked to Ranger Grant yet?"
"I intend to, once I get out of here."
"Good. Because I think she might be able to give us some clues."
So did he. The trick was going to be resisting the moon fever long enough for her to answer his questions. He swung his legs off the bed, waited until the quick bout of dizziness eased, then stood and walked—or rather limped, and badly—over to the small wardrobe to retrieve his clothes.
"Boss, I don't think you getting up is a good idea."
"Me lying in bed while a killer runs around creating mayhem isn't, either."
"Ranger Grant has left orders—"
"Ranger Grant's orders cannot override mine.” He glanced at Anton. “I need your truck."
Anton studied him for a moment then handed over the keys. “Ranger Grant is not going to be happy."
"Right now, her happiness is not my first priority. Finding this killer and ensuring we both survive is."
The time to worry about happiness could come later. Until then, he wasn't even going to consider the possibility.
* * * *
Savannah pushed the diner's door open to the sound of a distant chime, and she was immediately assaulted by the mouthwatering aroma of frying onion. She breathed the scent in deeply as her stomach rumbled a noisy reminder that she hadn't eaten in a while.
"Now, there's a smell that always makes me hungry,” Ronan said as he followed her inside. “How about we prop here for break? My treat."
Savannah grinned. “If I'm seen eating here, word will get back to my old man. And you know the trouble that will cause."
"What are people going to think,” he said, imitating her dad's gravely tone to a tee, “when they spot you eating at the opposition? It's just not good enough, Savannah."
She chuckled softly. “It's never good enough, apparently."
"His trouble is that he runs his family the way the runs this town—inflexibly."
Her amusement died. “True. But he means well."
Ronan propped his butt on one of the counter stools and gave her a deadpan look. “Meaning well almost caused Neva to lose Duncan. Meaning well drove you from town when you were seventeen."