“Theo’s right.” Detective Robinson stepped onto the curb, having waited for the duo to work out their issues. “Dissention helps them—the AAM and stalker. You need to be a team right now. A unified front.”
Theo lifted his brows. “And you’re, what, the neutral arbiter?”
Her smile was thin. “Always. And whatever this was”—she said, circling a finger between Theo and Connor—“gives me an idea. I understand interviewing the victim may be a challenge, and that she has some animosity toward Elisa. If that’s correct, showing a little tension between Elisa and Connor—vampires versus shifters—might encourage her to be more forthright.”
Theo nodded at the idea. “Miranda will probably be more comfortable if she thinks the Pack has her back—and that Connor is picking the Pack over vampires.”
“Make Miranda the heroine,” Gwen said with a nod.
I glanced at Connor, who was already watching me, brow furrowed. It was easy to see he didn’t like the idea, but Theo and Gwen were right.
“I don’t like it,” I said. “But they’re right. You’ll get more out of her—more information, maybe more details—if she thinks it might hurt me. And it’s entirely understandable you’d be frustrated at vampires right now.”
“I’ll send a message to Dad,” Connor said and pulled out his screen. “It will be more convincing if he plays along.”
“Agreed,” I said. “But if you overplay your hand, you’ll pay for it later. And either way, your town house gets a coffeemaker the second we’re done here.”
He grinned at me, leaned in, kissed me hard. “You’re a cheap date, Elisa Sullivan.”
Poor boy, I thought. He’d obviously never priced Italian espresso machines.
SEVENTEEN
Connor led us inside, through the NAC building to the lounge where we’d talked to Gabriel. Miranda sat in a recliner in a tank top and fitted jeans, dark boots. A shifter I didn’t recognize applied cream to a nasty slice on her arm. She’d definitely been injured. Add to that the half a dozen more shifters in the room, including Gabriel, who watched suspiciously as I moved in behind Connor, and I was beginning to feel uncomfortable.
“Keep that bitch away from me,” Miranda said, teeth gritted against the pain of her treatment.
“She’ll keep her distance,” Connor threw out, sending me a glare. “We don’t need any more vampire theatrics today.”
Theo moved a little closer, as if protecting me from Connor and the rest of them.
I made a show of looking embarrassed, but couldn’t quite manage a flush.
Miranda smiled, but it dropped away when she realized Gwen had followed them inside. “What the fuck?”
“Miranda, this is Detective Gwen Robinson,” Connor said. “None of us want the CPD in here, but we do want your story, your injuries, documented. And I want it official, so we can bury them with it.”
Miranda looked warily between him, me, Gwen, then managed a nodding scowl. “Fine.”
“Ms. Mitchell,” Gwen said, sitting down on the coffee table across from Miranda, gaze slipping to her laceration. Just the right amount of sympathy clouded her eyes. “I’m sorry you were attacked.” She pulled a small silver disc from her pocket, showed it. “I’m going to record this conversation, okay? That way I don’t have to take notes or ask you to repeat things I’m too slow to write down.”
“Okay,” Miranda said warily.
Gwen nodded, pressed the disc until it glowed green, placed it on the coffee table beside her. “Tell me what happened tonight.”
“Asshole vamp with a silver blade,” Miranda said, teeth gritted as more cream was applied to her arm. “I’d just come back from a delivery. Got off the bike, and he just came at me. Had a blade. I blocked, but he got through my jacket, got my arm. Nearly put me on the ground. I got in a shot, and when I pulled my own blade, he took off.” She looked past the other shifters, aimed her eyes at me. “He was a coward.”
“And where did this happen?” Gwen asked.
“Why? You don’t believe me?”
Gwen looked taken aback. “Of course I believe you. You said you got off a shot—perhaps the attacker left blood, DNA, that we can trace.”
“Outside the bar. Near the corner.”
“Great,” Gwen said, nodding. “That’s helpful.”
“What did he look like?” Connor asked.
“Mr. Keene,” Gwen said sharply. “I’ll handle the questions.”
He nodded stiffly.
“He was pale as a ghost,” Miranda said. “But I didn’t see his face. He was wearing black. They always do,” she said, gesturing in my direction.
Gwen cocked her head. “How did you know he was pale if you