Scarlett

The scent of rain lingered in the air as I stepped into the quiet confines of my office. Papers were strewn across the desk, a chaotic array of reports and photographs from the scene of Sarah’s murder.

Each piece told a fragment of a story, yet the full picture remained maddeningly out of reach.

My wolf, Ray, growled low in my mind, her frustration mirroring my own. Something doesn’t add up, she said. Jack doesn’t feel like the killer.

I sighed, running a hand through my ...