I picked it up and breathed a sigh of relief when I heard the dial tone above the siren ringing through the streets of Green Creek.
That relief, so green in all this blue, disappeared a second later.
I didn’t know who to call.
Ezra wasn’t….
He wasn’t who he said he was.
I’d seen the way his body changed, the years fading off him as he descended from the ruins of the bridge. He hadn’t been slumped over like age had ravaged his body.
And he’d said his name was Robert Livingstone.
Gordo had called him father.
Which meant—
Fuck. I didn’t know what it meant. It was lost in the storm in my head.
Alpha Hughes, but then….
I had no one.
I had no one I could call.
I was alone.
It wasn’t grief that hit me then, but it was close. It was something alive and dark, clawing at my chest.
I put the phone back in its cradle.
I had nowhere to go.
No friends.
No family.
No pack.
Nothing.
My chest hitched. I let out a shuddering breath, eyes stinging.
And then I saw it—the photograph next to the computer.
The glass covering the photo was dusty, covered in smudged fingerprints, as if it were picked up often.
I recognized the house I’d just escaped from in the background, a dusting of snow on the ground around it.
And standing in front of it was a wolf pack.
Ox was there, arms across his chest, a quiet smile on his face.
Joe stood next to him, head tilted back in laughter.
To Ox’s right was the witch, Gordo. He was scowling, but there was a vibrant spark in his eyes.
Mark held on to Gordo’s elbow, as if he were about to turn the witch toward him. The raven on his neck looked so real, I expected it to fly away.