Running Free (4 page)

“Right, yeah. Okay, so she was in and out of the foster system. Did a stint in juvie once for locking her foster mom in the basement for two days without food. She eventually ran away and evaded authorities until she aged out of the system. In the end, she wound up here. Not long after she moved in with Otis, she got hauled in for breaking ol’ Jared Thurston’s nose. Practically half the town was at the October carnival and witnessed her mauling the poor guy. Word on the street though, is that he was feeling her up, and she defended herself.”

“Fitz,” I warn, “facts.”

He frowns but nods. “Anyway, when they arrested and questioned her, she refused to talk and chose a night in jail instead. Brock bailed her out and she’s been under the radar ever since.”

I could tell by looking at the girl that she was a hard-ass. But I don’t think she, despite the mile long violent and criminal history, is capable of murder. Besides, she may have been muddy, but she wasn’t bloody.

“Right. Why don’t you finish here and I’m going to find Miss Aleen,” I say, taking the folded stack of papers on her from him. “She and I will have a little chat. Give me a ring if you’re able find out anything on the prints that were on his phone. Also, I want to know every Tom, Dick, and Harry he called in the last twenty-four hours. Get it all. There’s a murderer on the loose and I won’t settle until his ass is behind bars,” I grumble.

Leaving the scene, I truck back through the woods toward my Tahoe. When I emerge from the dense thicket, I’m startled to see three big-ass guys leaned against it, their motorcycles parked behind me.

“You found my nephew, huh?” the smaller of the three men questions.

I approach them and recognize the man, Pete Larson, from earlier when he made the missing person report. Chicago PD wanted us to wait forty-eight hours before moving forward with missing person’s cases. However, I always knew that the first twenty-four hours were the most critical and would always jump the gun on those cases. This case isn’t any different.

“Mr. Larson, I’m sorry but your nephew’s body was discovered not long ago near Woodland Pond,” I tell him with a sigh, making sure to leave out the gruesome details. “We have reason to believe it was homicide.”

Pete’s features morph into a murderous glare, his green eyes almost yellowing in the moonlight. “I’ll kill whichever motherfucker did this to my nephew! Acey was a good kid.”

I nod in agreement. “I have no doubts. But let the police do their jobs. We already have a lead we’re investigating. Trust that we’ll bring justice to the killer.”

He kicks my tire and I shoot him a warning stare.

“Pete,” the biggest of the three men growls at him, “the detective will do his job. Come on, let’s roll.”

“I’m going to find him if he doesn’t, Luca,” Pete snaps but heeds the order to back off, storming back to his motorcycle. “And when I do, I will make him pay.”

Luca shakes his head at me. “He’s just pissed and upset. I’ll make sure he won’t do anything stupid.”

He and the other guy turn and join Pete. Soon, their bikes thunder past me, echoing through the trees. After several minutes, I can hear the cicadas in the woods and a few frogs scattered about.

Unease settles in my gut as I take note of how eerily similar these guys were to the wolves earlier. I know sparkly vampires and lovesick shifters don’t exist in real life, but I can’t help the wonder that plagues me.

Luca, with his wise, authoritative grey eyes.

His buddies who listen without argument.

A menacing trio coincidentally showing up at the crime scene of a murder.

Shaking my head at my childish imagination, I climb into the vehicle and head toward Otis Brock’s house.

The drive is short in the dead of the night and after some arguing with my GPS, I finally find the old house on a dirt road at the edge of Craft County. Of course, at this time of night, the lights are all out because normal people sleep at night.

I, on the other hand, am not normal.

My doctor claims I have PTSD from when I found my wife cheating on me. I laughed off his asinine diagnosis and refused to fill the prescription to help me sleep at night. Instead, I picked up the night shift and worked long hours, all in an effort to prove that the bitch didn’t traumatize me out of my healthy mental state.

I’m a night owl now.

Not sick or distraught.

Just different.

I climb out of the car and, speaking of owls, one hoots loudly near the house. If it weren’t in the wee hours of the night I might be concerned that the bastard is giving me away but from the looks of it, everyone is dead asleep.

“Hush now, Mr. Owl,” I whisper in the darkness. “I’m just checking things out.”

A rustling in the large oak tree near the front porch causes me to take pause and my hand rests on my weapon at my belt. I sigh out a rush of breath when the huge owl flaps out of the tree and lands on the top step.

His wide, knowing eyes watch me and the fierce glint in them startles me. The damn bird acts like he’s a guard dog or some shit. When I approach, he flaps his wings several times in warning and hoots at me.

“Okay, okay. I’ll come back tomorrow when your ass is asleep,” I grunt out in response.

My cell blasts like a fucking alarm clock and I scramble to answer it before I wake up Otis and Frankie.

“Yeah,” I hiss into the phone as I trot back to the vehicle.

Fitz barks orders out to someone before answering me. “Gun, get back to Woodland Pond. Another goddamned body’s been reported not even a mile away from the last one.”

I run a hand in frustration through my thick hair. Tonight’s going to be a long night. “Right, I’m on my way.”

Frankie

“You seem different this morning.”

My mentor’s familiar, gruff voice warms me. I smile and lift my gaze. “Same ol’ Frankie,” I joke but my smile falls and I grow serious. “Otis, how come you never married anyone?”

The question has been one I’ve always been too afraid to ask. Like, the answer would reveal all the reasons why I’ll never have my happy ever after. Because we’re different. Undeserving.

His face quirks up into a bright grin. “I imprinted on a Swan shifter once. Prettiest little thing at Woodland Pond.”

I grin back but darkness passes over his features and my gut drops. “But?”

“She was killed. A hunter mistook her for a duck. And with her death,” he says and sighs sadly, “my ability to ever love another died with her.”

“Can’t you imprint on someone else?”

He shakes his head and his eyes cloud over. “Shifters only imprint once in their lifetime. Fate says you have that one soul you’ll always belong to. No other could ever take their place.”

His sadness sours my belly.

“I’ll never imprint or be imprinted on for that matter,” I tell him fiercely. My heart belongs to no one. Never has, never will.

He shakes his head with a slight smile, as if my statement is childish, but doesn’t say another word about it. Instead, he changes the subject. His friendliness has left the building and he regards me much like a father would his unruly teenager.

“Where were you last night?” he asks, the steam from his coffee fogging his glasses that are perched on the end of his nose.

I frown and pick up a flimsy piece of bacon. “Out.”

When I risk a glance at him, one of his salt and peppered brows is cocked up. I know the look — the look that says,
Frankie, I’m not going to put up with your shit today.

Huffing, I drop the bacon back down on the plate and scan the diner. It’s nearly noon and the place is already jammed packed with patrons.

“Otis, I was searching for clues. But, turns out, there aren’t any.”

His gaze softens but worry wrinkles his weathered face. “An officer came by the house last night. I heard him coming up the gravel so I shifted. He wanted to snoop around but I think I spooked him before he got a call and left. Do you know anything about that?”

My heart flops wondering if it were the detective from last night. The man that dizzied me with his charming good looks and masculine scent. The card he gave me burns a hole in my pocket.

“Yeah, he came by the bar last night asking questions,” I admit. “But I don’t know why he came out to the house. I told him everything I know.”

Otis flicks his gaze behind me to a couple walking in before regarding me with a serious, wide-eyed stare — a stare that is oddly the same as when he’s in his Owl shifter form.

“Heard on the news this morning they found Acey. And a boy named Dave. Both bodies were mutilated in the same manner. Didn’t you bust out a Dave from the animal shelter recently?”

My brows pinch together in anger. “What are you trying to say, Otis? That I had something to do with their deaths?”

He sips his coffee, seemingly unaffected by my outburst, and takes his time answering. This is one of the reasons why he and I get along so well. I flip out and he stays calm. But eventually, we talk it out and move along. It stings that he might think I could do something like that to those kids.

“Frankie, darlin’, I know you would never hurt anyone without good reason. And I know those boys didn’t deserve what happened to them,” he says in a soft tone that warms me. “But I do know that both of them were kids who you’d helped. It may be coincidence but it concerns me that this could somehow involve you. Did you upset anyone in town? Anyone who could be trying to get back at you?”

My heart sinks at the thought of those guys getting hurt because of me. I wrack my brain and try to determine if I’ve done anything that would warrant such behavior. I come up empty.

“I don’t think so.”

He turns his attention outside. An autumn thunderstorm is brewing, I can sense it in my bones. When I follow his gaze, I’m satisfied to see that I’m right. Dark clouds swirl in the sky above the parking lot and the trees sway as the winds grow stronger.

“I’ll keep my eyes open and an ear to the ground,” he says. “In the meantime, be careful Frankie. I smell a rat and I don’t want something terrible happening to you. You’re my girl.”

Tightness in my chest nearly suffocates me and I blink away the burn in my eyes. I don’t cry. I absolutely do not cry.

Instead of answering him, I nod. Otis never needs many words — he simply always seems to know. If I could have chosen my own father in this life, I’d have chosen Otis. He’s like a dad to me in every sense of the word. Without his guidance and help, I’d probably be dead too.

And that’s why I help these kids.

They’re lost. Scared. Alone. Much like I was many years ago.

But they don’t have to be.

They have me and Otis. Together we’ll save as many as we can.

“I’ll catch you later before my shift,” I tell him when he turns back to regard me. “I want to go to the shelter and see if I can find anyone who needs help.”

Otis smiles at me — a smile that radiates with pride. Pride only a father would have for his daughter.

My heart does that wicked thumping thing again and I slip out of the booth before I do something stupid like burst into tears like a little girl. I wave, leaving Otis to pick up the tab, and all but run to my beat up Chevy pickup.

The “Dude Ride,” as Luca refers to it.

All along the bottom, the poor thing is riddled with rusty holes and cracks. The truck, at one time, was probably a sharp, shiny midnight black. Now, it’s more of a faded dark grey. The bench seat on the inside is littered with cigarette burns from the previous owner. It’s shitty but it’s mine. I paid a whole three hundred bucks for it when I got my first paycheck and it’s been my trusty ride ever since.

The engine purrs to life, ever faithful, and I tear out of the parking lot. The animal shelter isn’t far away and I’ve barely made it through the Led Zeppelin song on the radio before I’m pulling into the spot in front of the door.

I climb out and catch a glimpse of my reflection in the tall, wide glass windows out front. Today, my long, wavy dark hair is pulled into a messy ponytail and my face is free of makeup aside from a few quick strokes of mascara. Misty, one of the other bartenders, says I’m naturally pretty — that most girls have to use a gallon of makeup to even come close to how I look every day with my face scrubbed clean. I always roll my eyes because I don’t see it.

Sure, lots of guys around here want me but I figure it’s because I have legs for miles, perky tits and an ass you can bounce quarters off of. Who needs to work out when you can shift into a Doberman and run for miles without ever being winded?

As I step up to the glass, I frown. My face seems so plain to me. Luca, while he cared for me, was more interested in my body.

I wonder what the ol’ detective thinks.

The thought, sudden and out of nowhere, causes my cheeks to burn.

Jesus, Frankie, get some dick from a poor chum — hell, Luca at this point will do — and quit lusting over that cop.

Drawing strength from my anger, I stomp toward the entrance and sling the door open. The stench of urine and feces swallows me up and I choke down the desire to barf. I hate this place — too much of a reminder of my past — but I suffer through it every time. For them.