“What’s up?” he said.

No pleasantries exchanged this time. Not even an introductory hello. In anyone else, it would be a sign that my call was unwelcome. With Clay, there was no such subtext. Why bother with hello when I’d know he was there as soon as he started talking? Why ask after Paige’s health, or mine, or Savannah’s, when he knew if we were unwell, he’d already have heard it from Elena? The point of civilities was lost on Clay, and I must admit, it’s sometimes pleasant to get straight to business without wading through five minutes of social conventions.

“I have a hypothetical question to put to you regarding Karl Marsten.”

“What’s he done now?”

“If he felt some attachment to a woman and she began to form an attachment to another man, could his reaction be…violent?”

“We’re talking about Hope, right?”

“Not necessarily. I’m posing it as a—”

“Hypothetical question.” The line buzzed as he moved, probably thumping down onto the sofa, getting comfortable. “If it’s not Hope, then the answer is no, because Marsten doesn’t ‘feel some attachment’ to any woman—hell, to any person—except that girl. But if we are talking about Hope, which I presume we are, then the answer is different.”

“All right, it’s Hope.”

“So she’s getting cozy with another guy, and you’re asking whether he could get violent? Toward her? No.”

“I was thinking of the other party.”

“The competition? Yeah, he could. Not saying he would, but he could.”

“How violent are we talking?”

“Look, just tell me what’s going on. Yeah, yeah, client privilege or whatever, but you know I’m not about to go blabbing to anyone—including Marsten. Only person I’d tell is Elena, but that goes without saying.”

I explained the situation.

“Shit,” he said when I finished. “So you’re asking whether Marsten would take out his competition permanently? Wish I could cut back your list of suspects and tell you no.” A rustle, as if he was changing position. “You know Marsten attacked the Pack, right? Six, seven years ago? Because we wouldn’t give him territory unless he joined?”

“You’ve told me, yes.”

“Well, because he couldn’t hold territory, what he’d do is settle in a city for a few months and unofficially declare it his. Any other mutt showed up, he’d track them down and take them out to a fancy dinner. Buy them whatever they wanted, foot the bill, chat them up, be as gracious a host as only Marsten can be. Then he’d tell them they had until dawn to clear out. If they didn’t leave? Elena would get a call or a letter telling her she could remove that mutt from her dossiers.”

“He killed them?”