Chapter 19

Ch. 19: Julian

"Shoplifting?"

I hear the growl in Dane's voice and gently touch his arm. We're standing outside the station, where Coleridge had met us with Ingrid in tow. The latter hugs herself and scowls at the ground, and looks an awful lot like a kid in trouble.

"Relax, Hunter," Coleridge says. "She won't be charged." Her voice is almost as growly as his, and I wonder if she might have been a smoker in her younger days. "She should never have been arrested in the first place."

"Then why are we here?" Dane asks. "My sister's an adult, and I'm not her guardian."

Coleridge gives him a hard-eyed stare that would make anyone else wither. "Because of who's involved, of course."

"The sister of a former officer, you mean."

"Yes; but more importantly, the sister of a friend."

Dane clears his throat. "I appreciate that... Laura. But I'm not following."

She sighs, rubs the back of her neck, and glances at Ingrid. "Will you tell him, or shall I?"

"I was just shopping," Ingrid mutters. "No lifting involved."

Coleridge waits for her to say more, and when she doesn't, turns back to me and Dane.

"According to Mrs. Ortiz, Ingrid spent about thirty minutes in her store. She showed no signs of making a purchase, but took things off the shelves, put them back, and appeared to be... 'sniffing the walls.' Understandably, Mrs. Ortiz was concerned."

"Hang on." Dane lifts a hand. "'Ortiz,' as in Marta and Sergio Ortiz of Mountain Hardware and Gifts?"

Coleridge nods. "The same. And, given it's on the same street as Lagrange's shop, and among the stores victimized by this... body-snatching thief, or whatever we're going with now, I imagine Ingrid's motive was investigatory rather than criminal. I also imagine these investigations were not 'officially sanctioned,' so to speak."

She lifts a brow at Dane, and he fixes Ingrid with a glare, which she misses because she's still studying the pavement at her feet.

"Certainly not," Dane says.

"I was just trying to help," Ingrid mutters and sniffs as she wipes her nose with the end of her sleeve.

"Regardless, Marta and Sergio know me," Dane says. "Why didn't you tell them who you are?"

Finally, Ingrid looks up, tears sparkling in bloodshot eyes. "I might've, if I'd had the chance."

Dane looks at Coleridge, brows lifted in question.

She sets her hands on her hips and shifts her weight. "Mrs. Ortiz did not, in fact, call the police. She was merely monitoring the situation when an off-duty officer happened to enter the store. She mentioned the situation to him, and he took it on himself to confront and arrest your sister."

"Without proof?" I ask, frowning as I glance between Coleridge and Dane. "Is that legal?"

Coleridge crosses her arms, looking uncharacteristically uncomfortable. "Well, that's the thing. He says he saw her put something in her pocket—"

"Which isn't true," Ingrid interjects.

"—and he had this as evidence of probable cause."

She pulls a piece of folded paper from her pocket and hands it to Dane. As he unfolds and peruses it, his expression darkens like the horizon before a storm.

Ingrid begins to cry and covers her face with her hands. "Please don't tell Mom and Dad."

"What is it?" I ask, craning to read the paper.

He hands it to me, describing the contents in a few terse words.

"Arrest record. Dated last April. New York."

A glance tells me it has Ingrid's name on it, along with a single charge.

Shoplifting.

"Here's the thing," Coleridge says. "The officer in question pulled this record days ago—well before he should have had any reason to—which led me to suspect his presence in that store was not a coincidence. In fact, it suggests he may have been looking for just such an opportunity."

Dane and I reach the same conclusion at the same time.

"Erickson."

Coleridge holds up a hand at whatever she sees on Dane's face and shakes her head.

"He's received a warning, and I'm considering formal action as well." Dropping her hand, she sighs. "Honestly, that bastard's been one false step away from dismissal for a while now. The problem is, when he pulls shit, he pulls it like this. I'd never have noticed if I hadn't been watching for it. That's why you're here. I wanted you to hear this directly from me; I want you to know I've got your back, and that this won't happen again."

This time, Dane makes no attempt to conceal his growl. "Thanks, Chief," he says. "And for Erickson's sake, it had better not."

⁎⁎⁎

"Shoplifting on a dare?" I ask, once we're all settled in Dane's car and headed home. "Isn't that junior high level shit?"

In the back seat, Ingrid sniffles. She's huddled against the door and stares out the window, occasionally lifting a hand to swipe at stray tears.

"I guess."

I glance at Dane. The layers of anger and disappointment he's working through are almost visible, and while a large part of the anger is aimed at Erickson, Ingrid's not escaping unscathed.

"So, how'd it happen?" he asks.

She huffs a sigh. "You wouldn't understand."

Dane's hands tighten on the wheel, but when he speaks, there's no heat in his words.

"I've been through careers in the military and law enforcement, Ingrid. I think I might understand peer pressure."

Ingrid stays quiet, and when I glance back, I see her shoulders shake with silent sobs. I dig in the glove-box for the supply of paper napkins left over from various fast food stops, and hand some back to her.

She takes them and presses the whole wad to her face as she continues to cry.

"It was one mistake," she sniffs, her voice muffled by napkins.

"Mistakes aren't deliberate," Dane says, a little of the growl returning to his voice. "What you made was a bad decision—a choice you have to live with. We're both adults, and I'm not gonna tell on you to Mom and Dad; but while you're staying with us, you're at least somewhat my responsibility, and I need to know what's what."

Ingrid sniffles some more and takes a shaky breath, but finally raises her head. "There's... this group of girls," she begins, dabbing at her eyes with the damp napkins.

I groan inwardly. No good story begins with those words—in my experience, anyway.

"They get all the good shit—all the best solos and the lead parts. If you're not in with them, you don't stand a chance. They make you do all this dumb shit to prove your worth, or whatever, but once you're in, you're in. They look out for their own. They're like... like..."

"A sorority?" I suggest.

"A Pack," Dane says, at almost the same time, and Ingrid nods.

"That's what it felt like, at first. It was hard being away from home, being the only Wolf. It was fucking lonely and... I just wanted to fit in somewhere."

"So... the shoplifting dare was a hazing ritual, or a loyalty test," I say.

"Yeah, I guess."

"Did you pass?"

Ingrid turns back to the window as she mutters a quiet reply. "Yeah. I passed."

"You don't sound too happy about it," Dane comments.

"No," Ingrid says, crumpling the ball of napkins in her fist. "I knew it was wrong when I did it. That's why I got caught: I went back inside to pay for the shit. But I didn't rat on anyone else, so... I was in. Only..."

"Don't tell me," Dane drawls. "It wasn't all it was cracked up to be, and getting in proved easier than getting out again."

Ingrid hesitates, then nods. "I thought the shoplifting was a one-off, but the loyalty tests and shit didn't stop. I swear I never did anything like that again, but... I was glad for the chance to get away from all that and come here."

I look over at Dane, thinking that this story doesn't jibe with the bright picture she's painted of life at school so far, but he seems satisfied for the moment.

"As long as that's the truth, we're all good," he says. "Mistake or bad decision, it sounds like you learned your lesson, and we can leave it in the past, where it belongs."

The mood lightens a little after that, and Dane even stops for some burgers at Ingrid's favorite drive-through.

Something bothers me, though, like a thread that keeps snagging, but I take Dane's lead and let it lie.

⁎⁎⁎

At home, Ingrid remains subdued, and retreats to her room.

Dane says little, but I know him well enough by now to understand he's not being uncommunicative; he's simply still processing.

I wait; when he's ready, he'll let me know.

I'm about halfway through a crossword when he joins me on the couch, handing me an open beer. He's fresh from the shower, his long locs hanging loose to dry, dressed in a sleeveless shirt and lounge pants.

He settles at my side, prepared to wait for me to finish my game, but I set my phone down and give him my full attention.

"What will you do?"

He reads the anxiety in my tone and arches a brow. "About Erickson? Nothing. He'd be an idiot to try anything like that again."

"As a cop, yeah," I say, curling up against his side.

Dane snorts and rubs a hand across my shoulders. "Don't worry. He doesn't know what he's messing with."

"That's what worries me, though," I mumble.

Dane pulls away from me a little.

"You're afraid of what I'll do?"

I lean back and blink at him. "Well... yeah. I mean, you basically said you'd mess him up if he messed with your sister, and he gone and messed. So..." I shrug.

Dane shakes his head. "Coleridge says it's handled, and I trust her. Erickson is her problem now, not mine. We've got our own problems to deal with."

"Like what?"

"Like two murders, to start."

"Two?" I blink. "What's the second?"

He looks at me. "James Hart, of course. I think if we figure out who really killed your grandfather, we'll figure out what ties this all together."

I sit up straighter at that. "You still think the two cases are connected?"

"Well, yeah. You don't?" He arches a brow at me.

I shake my head. "I don't know. I guess I've been focused on the skin-changer angle."

Dane nods. "That remains our top priority. We have to assume there's a second one, which means there's still an imposter among us."

I snort, and Dane gives me a look.

"What's funny?"

"Nothing. So, where do we start? I was thinking I'd ask Halloran to take a look at Rhiannon's book. He can probably translate it a lot faster than Noah can."

Dane makes a face. "Yeah, but do you trust him with that?"

"You don't?"

He shakes his head. "No. And neither should you. He's got his own agenda, Jules. I don't know what it is, but there's more to him than he's letting on."

I frown. "He might be Fae, but he's a cop, too, and he takes his job as seriously as you ever did."

"I'll give him that. Still, I'd rather you didn't hand over the book until Noah's had a look. At least take pictures of the pages, so you have a backup. Meanwhile, I think we should focus on the rest of our suspects—see who we can eliminate."

"Haven't Halloran and Vasquez already questioned everyone several times?"

"Yeah, but most people try to show their best side to authorities. It's our job to look at the sides that weren't shown."

"How do we do that?"

He shrugs and pulls me back against him, rubbing his hand up and down my arm. "Talk to them. Which is your wheelhouse, not mine."

I bite my bottom lip and finish the last of my beer. It feels nice to be acknowledged. Too nice, almost.

"So, while I'm chatting up the suspects, what sort of 'real work' will you be doing?"

He's quiet for a moment, his fingers combing through my hair, and when he speaks, his tone is soft.

"I'll be busy getting ready for the land-bonding," he says. "It's a serious ritual, Julian. I can't do it without you."

I pull away from him slowly, just far enough to meet his eyes. "Are you sure we should do this now? After what we've learned about the Wolves who lived here? And about... my family?"

He nods. "What better time than now? With the power the bond grants, I'll have the advantage I need. But if we miss the full moon, we'll have to wait for the next. By then, it could be too late."

"The timing really matters, then?"

"If I want to be a legitimate and recognized Alpha, then yeah, it matters."

I wait for the truth to settle in my heart, and when it does, I nod.

"Okay. If you say this is the thing to do, then we'll do it."

His brows contract and he frowns.

"I don't want to you do anything just because I say so, Julian. I want us to want the same thing. I know I'm shit at explaining it, but—"

"Hey." I lay my hands on either side of his face and pull him into a light kiss. "You know I won't do something I don't want to do. And I want to make you happy. Isn't that enough?"

"You already make me happy," he says.

"You don't look happy," I tease, tracing his frown with the pad of my thumb.

"I'll show you, then." He leans to kiss me again, his breath tickling as his lips brush mine.

"You taste like beer and angst," I whisper, pushing him away with a smile. "Go brush your teeth, and then we can both get something we want."