Eat it before someone can take it away.

A rustling sound stops her. She freezes, her head whipping around. Wolf. She remembers the word. But words don’t matter. Nothing matters but the creature stalking toward her meat.

She darts forward, and the animal’s hackles rise. It snaps its jaws, and Girl falls, scrambles backward.

Watches the wolf turn its attention from her to the meat.

Watches the wolf step forward.

Thunk. The sound is sudden, bone-crunching. The wolf snarls and fights and bleeds, but it can’t escape. The monster has it.

The monster almost had Girl.

Chapter 23

The first thing I heard when I came back to myself was the sound of the shop door opening. I smelled fresh air and dirt.

Meat. The memory lingered longer than it should have, vivid enough that my nostrils flared.

“Mr. Ferris.” It took me a moment to place the voice behind me as its owner greeted the shopkeeper and then continued, “Mrs. Anthony, I thought I might find you here.”

I turned. There was nothing particularly aggressive in the sheriff’s posture.

I still shifted to put my back to the wall.

“Please don’t tell me to go back to the hotel, Sheriff.” Bella’s mother’s voice was muted. “I can’t just sit around waiting for updates. You can’t expect me to.”

The sheriff placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “The FBI is sending a team to join the investigation. The rangers are calling in reinforcements. I assure you, ma’am, we are doing everything we possibly—”

“I’d like access to all your missing persons reports for the past five years.” Mrs. Anthony was quiet but forceful. “I appreciate what you and your men are doing, but for my own peace of mind, Sheriff, I need to see those reports.”

There is no peace, I found myself thinking as I wound my way back toward the two of them—and toward Free and Jude. The human mind is not a peaceful place.

“You need to go back to your husband, Angela. Keep your phones charged. The feds will want to talk to you both.”

Something about the sheriff’s too-gentle tone hit me like a rusted knife to the gut. I knew what it was like to be handled with kid gloves, to be treated like a victim instead of a person.

“How many are there?” It took me a few seconds to realize that I was the one who’d asked the question. I forced myself to elaborate, each word hard-won. “How many people have gone missing from Hunter’s Point?”