Marie Graeson. One more name etched onto my private wall of remembrance. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Comeaux allowed a moment of silence to lapse before prompting me. “Well?”

My gaze skated from Comeaux back to Graeson. I had a hard time not looking at him while he was staring a hole through my left ear. “Should Mr. Graeson be present for this?”

The grizzled man stalked toward me. Hostility wafted from his skin like pungent cologne. “Mr. Graeson will be part of this investigation until the sick bastard responsible for Marie’s death is brought to justice.”

The primal region of my brain quaked in its boots, but I kept my voice steady. “She’s one of mine,” I confirmed. “Her injuries mirror those of the previous victims.”

The marshal scratched his chin. “Can you tell what type of fae did this?”

“No,” I lied as cold sweat popped down my spine. “I’m sorry.”

Graeson’s nostrils flared—scenting my fib?—and my hands became of sudden interest to him. Damn it. He must smell the hand sanitizer. Our gazes locked, and his irises gleamed with a golden sheen. He knew I had touched her even if he hadn’t figured out why.

“It was worth a shot.” Comeaux rocked back on his heels. “Do you want to visit the site?”

About as much as I wanted Graeson to punch me in the face with those cinder blocks he called hands. The knuckles bending his weathered fingers were scarred and thick like a pro boxer’s would be.

“Sure.” I sidestepped Graeson’s intensity, exited the tent and waited for Comeaux to join me. “Lead the way.”

The banks surrounding Pilcher’s Pond sloped in a gentle downward curve past the edge of the trail Comeaux and I had taken to reach the tent. The ground was bare and cracked, the weeds dead and brittle underfoot. He veered to the left and began sidling down the incline toward the basin. I stepped where he did and focused on keeping my feet under me. After a few minutes, curiosity forced the question on my mind past my lips. “What’s the deal with Graeson?”

“He’s beta to the Georgia alpha, a guy named Bessemer.” Comeaux kept his voice pitched low. “If Graeson wants to investigate his sister’s death, it’s within his rights under the Native Species of Magical Origins Act. We aren’t required to share our information with him, but we can’t refuse to answer his questions either.” At my incredulous look, he shrugged. “To them, this is pack business. The murder took place on Chandler pack lands. They take care of their own.”

Beta. Pack. Alpha. One plus one plus one equaled a potentially serious four-legged problem.