She glanced at him. "Betise doesn't own the only salon in town."
"No. And if the killer is wearing a wig, he's probably got one of his own. I doubt he'd be using one of these. But we've got nothing to lose by taking the chance."
She plucked a couple of hairs, then carefully replaced the wig and went into the back to find a plastic bag while Duncan continued his search through the rest of the drawers.
"Nothing," he said after a few moments.
"That's not really surprising," she replied, walking back into the main room. "If she is up to something, she wouldn't be stupid enough to leave evidence of it lying around here with people coming in and out all day."
"No." He sat on the edge of the desk and flicked through the appointment book. "Looks like the victims were customers of hers."
She frowned. "No, they weren't."
He glanced up at her, one eyebrow raised. "Their names are in the book. The last victim saw her two days before she died."
She looked over his shoulder. The name was there in black and white. "She told me she didn't know any of them."
"Then she lied. I wonder why?"
"Maybe she didn't want the hassle of dealing with the rangers."
"Maybe." He leaned forward and brushed a kiss across her lips, his eyes bright with the same hunger that stirred her blood. "I think we'd better head on to her place and do a little more investigating."
It was last thing she wanted to do, especially when his taste still lingered so enticingly on her mouth. Her wolf was definitely off the leash, and she suspected there was no going back to the way things had been before she'd foolishly walked into the mansion thinking she could control both the moon and her own responses. In the space of a couple of days, just about everything had changed, and she wasn't sure whether to be happy about that or not.
She stepped away, allowing him to brush past. They climbed out the window then Duncan slid his knife along the edge, knocking the catch back into place again.
"What about our footprints?" she asked, staring at the deep imprints they were leaving in the snow.
He grabbed the snow-laden lid off the nearby trash can and dumped the snow onto the telltale prints near the window. Then he kicked the bin over, scattering the rubbish around the door, covering the rest of them. "Let's get back to the — "
He stopped. Across the night came the sound of car engine drawing close. Neva met his gaze. "You don't think...?"
"We can't take the chance that it's not. Shift shape and jump the fence."
She did, barely clearing it, her belly scraping across the rough top edges. Leaping from a standstill had never been one of her fortes. She was too small to get any great height. She landed lightly and padded along the fence line until she found a gap in the wood. Lights speared the darkness, twin beams of brightness that lit the alley and highlighted the rubbish hiding their prints. A red car cruised into sight, stopping close to the salon's back door. Betise climbed out, cursing softly and kicking away a soda bottle as she headed for the entrance.
Duncan stopped beside Neva, his silver coat blending with snow. I'm surprised she's not already at the mansion. The dance has been going for a good two hours.
Maybe she's not going to the dance.
Betise is an addict. I doubt she can stop.
She looked at him. He was as powerful in wolf form as he was in human, and his eyes glowed like black glass. Are you an addict?
Once, he admitted. But no more.
Why?
He shrugged. I grew tired of the chase. Tired of much-used flesh.
That's not a very nice thing to say.
His amusement spun around her. But true.
So you chased me because I was new to the dance?
Yes.