"Someone who disagrees with the dance, perhaps?" he drawled softly.
The uneasy feeling increased. She eyed him for a moment, then said, "Half the golden pack doesn't like the idea of the dance, me included. Are you trying to imply we have some sort of conspiracy going on?"
"Is it any more implausible than one of the Sinclairs being the murderer?"
"Well, yeah. My pack are strong telepaths. A secret that big would not stay secret for long."
He raised a dark eyebrow. "The fact that you're all strong telepaths means you all have strong shields, doesn't it?" When she reluctantly nodded, he continued, "So why is it implausible?"
"Because my pack aren't murderers."
"And the Sinclairs are?"
She wished he'd get to the point — if he had one. "Well, you Sinclairs do have a rather wild reputation you're not afraid to live up to."
"There's a difference between being wild and being a murderer."
"From what I've heard, a lot of the Sinclair pack walk the edge."
"Walking the edge doesn't make us murderers."
"No." She hesitated, then put her coffee cup on the table and crossed her arms. "So, who do you suspect?"
He studied her for a moment, face impassive, dark eyes hard. The air around her practically buzzed with tension — both his and hers.
"Your mother was born on the Bitterroot Reservation over in Idaho, wasn't she?"
It felt like he'd punched her. Her breath left in a whoosh of air, and for several seconds, she couldn't even breathe. Couldn't do anything more than look at him in horror.
"Did you know," he continued mercilessly, "that as a sixteen-year-old she took part in a raid of the Sinclair stronghold over there and burned it to the ground?"
"No."
"Yes." His voice was monotone. Relentless. "Thirteen people died that night, and many more were injured. Your mother was never charged because her old man paid off the right people."
She slapped her palms on the table and thrust upright. "Get out."
His smile was grim. "She's done it once, Neva. She could easily do it again."
"I said, get out." Her voice shook with the force of the fury rolling through her.
"A good investigator considers all options."
"My mother is not an option. Now get the hell out of my house."
He didn't move. Didn't even blink. Might have been made of stone, and she was certain his heart was.
"Then perhaps you should consider your father," he said, his rich voice as cold as the storm outside. "Did you know he'd been questioning Betise about who was dancing with whom up at the mansion?"
She'd been questioning Betise — and the older wolf had certainly never mentioned her father doing the same. And she would have, if only because Betise hated Neva's father. It was actually doubtful whether she'd give him the time of day. "I said get out. I meant it."
"Your days and nights are mine, little wolf. I'm not going anywhere."
"You're a..." Words failed her. Somehow, bastard just didn't seem strong enough.
His smile contained little warmth. "So you keep saying."
She hit him. Not physically, but emotionally. Hit him with all the anger and humiliation and pain that had built up over the past couple of days. Although his shields were up, the force of her emotive blow still leeched all color from his face and thrust him backwards, off the chair and onto the floor.