Claimed (The Lair of the Wolven 1)

The house was in what the locals considered the “busy part” of town. Which was to say the traffic in and out of Walters’s center, such as it was, passed by—but there were no streetlights up at the asphalt. No lights down the gravel drive. Just one front bulb fixture and one at the back door, neither of which were motion-activated, neither of which were turned on regularly.

Although that was changing, effective immediately.

Given how dark it got? Anyone could have parked just off the county road on her driveway and walked down and around her house—

Her car. Damn it, her car was parked in the open air because there was no garage, and she hadn’t locked it. She never did.

“That’s another thing that’s changing tonight,” she muttered as she went out and walked across the grass.

Looking in through the driver’s side, she expected to see the seats stabbed and the glove compartment open like a wound.

Nope.

Reaching for the handle, she snatched her hand back and pulled her sleeve over her fingers and palm. When she went to open things, she had a thought a bomb was going to explode. Which was nuts—

The handle made a little noise as she lifted it and she jumped.

“Relax,” she muttered as she pulled the door wide.

No boom! Nothing out of place, even as she looked in the backseat. And when she went into the glove box, she checked the paperwork. Everything was as she’d left it.

She went around and checked the trunk.

No ticking box. No random human head. No threatening note made out of mismatched letters cut from the pages of a magazine.

Closing her car up, she leaned back against the quarter panel and crossed her arms over her chest. As she stared at her house, she was glad she’d gone to BU and gotten into the habit of always locking her doors. Boston was a big city and crime happened anywhere there were lots of people.

Crime also crept into isolated places.

Her eyes returned to the footprints beneath the windows of her living room. Good thing she always had a deadly weapon with her—

As her phone went off in her pocket, she jumped with a shout. Then she took the thing out. It was a 518 area code, and she had a thought that it was Daniel.

“Hello?” She waited for a response, expecting it to be him. Wanting it to be him. “Hello … ?”

When he didn’t return the greeting, and a telemarketer didn’t click in and tell her that she was due a refund from Amazon or had a repayment option on her college loans, she hung up. Memorizing the number, she went onto the web and typed it into a reverse search—

A text banner came through on the top of her screen.

From the number.

Opening it—

She looked up. Looked around.

As a shiver went through her, she refocused on the image. It was of her, leaning back against her car, looking at her phone in the sunlight.

Her heart skipped and then pounded.

With shaking hands, she put her phone away. Her mouth was dry so she swallowed a couple of times. Then she took a deep breath.

Striding forward, she zeroed in on where the picture had to have been taken from, given its angle. Ten feet into the stalk, she broke out into a jog. Then a run. As her windbreaker flapped and her ears burned from the wind, her eyes locked on a thicket of trees.

Her mind stopped considering the dangers as her body took over.

All she knew was that she was not going to be pushed around.

Even if it killed her.

SO HOW WAS your weekend?”

As Candy’s voice registered, Lydia jerked and looked up from behind Peter Wynne’s computer. Even though Lydia was in the WSP building and supposedly at work, it was still a shock to see the other woman. Then again, she felt like she’d been gone a very long time, proof that emotions, if they were strong enough, could take you on a vacation.

Of course in her case, it had been a bad one, the equivalent of a Princess Cruise with Norwalk virus as a cabin mate.

“Hello?” Candy prompted.

Lydia shook herself to attention and focused properly. “Oh, hey—wow, look at your hair.”

“Blond again.” Running a hand full of rings over the short length, the woman shrugged. “You know what Dolly Parton says.”

“Working nine to five?”

“It takes a lot of money to look this cheap.” Candy laughed at her own joke. “Anyway, I saw the folder you left on my desk. You got all the invitations done. Amazing.”

“I’m going to take them to the post office on my lunch break.”

“Sounds good. And hey, you look comfy in here.”

“Do I?” Lydia glanced around at the wood paneling and the diplomas. “I don’t feel comfy.”

“Well, I can help you with that.”

“You’re going to bring me a Barcalounger?”