My father sighed, and springs groaned over the line as he sank into his desk chair. “I guess it could have been worse. What did you find out?”

“We took a sample of blood from the stray who got away with Marc, and Galloway says it belongs to a tom named Adam Eckard. He’s not on our list, so we need whatever you can find out about him. Specifically, his address and anything you can get on his car. Same for the two dead toms, if you can. We’re not sure who was driving, and neither of the corpses was in possession of a set of keys.”

“I’ll put Owen on it as soon as I hang up,” my father promised. “Anything else?”

“Yeah.” I braced myself with one hand on the back of Dan’s seat as Parker took a sharp turn. “We misunderstood the motive for the ambush. Manx and I weren’t the target. Marc was. Galloway says they were supposed to kill him in front of us, to send a message.”

My father growled softly into my ear. “Sounds like they’re trying to pick a fight.”

“They think they’re trying to end one. Several strays have gone missing in the area over the past month. They’re presumed dead, and Marc is presumed responsible. But it looks to us like Eckard and the dead toms are to blame. Though I wouldn’t be surprised to find out they’re working with or for someone else.”

“You have names for the missing strays?” A drawer squealed open over the line, and something smacked lightly onto the surface of my dad’s desk. Probably a legal pad.

“Yeah.” I read him the list of three names Galloway had given me, along with the question mark at the bottom of the list—Galloway was sure there had been a fourth, but couldn’t remember his name.

“I’ll call you in the morning with whatever we can dig up. Though Michael could probably dig a lot faster.” But Michael was in Georgia and couldn’t be spared until Manx’s trial was over. My dad’s palm scratched against the receiver, stifling his yawn. “I want you all to get some sleep. There’s nothing more you can do tonight, without an address.”

I thought about arguing—I wasn’t sure I could sleep with Marc missing in action—but for once I was too tired to bicker. So I changed the subject. “How’s Kaci?”

“Exhausted.” Concern echoed in his voice and probably in his posture. “She’s going to be seriously ill soon if she doesn’t Shift.”

“I know.” I sighed and stared out the window as a series of bare, frozen fields flew by in the dark. “We were really close this afternoon, though. I’m hoping I can talk her into it as soon as I get back.”

“Good.” He paused and yawned again, triggering one of my own. “Get some sleep.”

“I’ll try.”

It was nearly three in the morning when we got back to Marc’s house. Dan crashed on the couch, and Ethan, Parker and I curled up together on Marc’s bed, like a pile of lions. I honestly don’t think I could have slept surrounded by Marc’s scent in his absence, if not for the shared warmth and the steady, comforting beats of two familiar hearts. And as it was, I didn’t sleep well. I was haunted by images of Marc, lying dead in a bare hole in the ground, in a congealing pool of his own blood, while scavengers picked the flesh from his bones.

I woke up in a cold sweat, with tears still damp on my face. Ethan’s arm lay over my shoulder, as if he’d tried to comfort me in my sleep.

It was still dark outside. The alarm clock read five forty-five. I was awake for good.

Ethan and Parker were still sleeping, so I snuck out of bed and tiptoed to the front of the house in my socks, only pausing to grab my cell phone from Marc’s nightstand. To my surprise, Dan Painter sat at the kitchen table, holding a can of Coke, damp with condensation, in spite of the chill in the poorly insulated room. His cell phone lay on the table in front of him.

“What are you doing up?” I padded past him into the kitchen in my thick, fuzzy socks.

“Tetris.” He held up the phone so I could see the colored bricks stacking up across his screen. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Me, neither.” I pulled the empty carafe from the coffeemaker and ran water into it from the sink. “Wouldn’t you rather have coffee?” I asked, eyeing the cold can.

“I was afraid it’d wake you up.”

I gave him a small smile, thanking him for the courtesy. Then I reached overhead and started opening cabinets, looking for the coffee and filters.

“Second from the left, on the bottom shelf.”

Damn it. Dan Painter knew where Marc kept his stuff, and I didn’t. For about the thousandth time in the past few days, frustration raged through me, intensifying my fear and anger on Marc’s behalf. Being separated from him sucked. But not knowing whether he was dead or alive was torture.

I grabbed a filter and a bag of ground coffee from the bottom shelf and dumped a generous pile of the latter into the former. When the coffee was brewing, the very scent gifting me with rational thought in spite of my exhausted, emotionally drained state, I pulled out the chair opposite Dan and dropped into it. “Why can’t you sleep?”

Dan stared at the can he twisted on the cracked table surface. “Guilty conscience.”

My heart beat harder in sympathy. “Dan, this is not your fault.”

He shrugged, still avoiding my eyes. “If it was me instead of him, this never woulda happened. He woulda stopped ‘em.”

I sighed. He was probably right—after all, we were talking about Marc—but his guilt was totally misplaced. “You weren’t there, Dan. There was nothing you could do.”