Her Reluctant Bear: A Hot Paranormal Fantasy Saga with Witches, Werewolves, and Werebears (Weres and Witches of Silver Lake Book 5) (2 page)

The door to the guest room sat wide open, and while the light was off, enough moonlight streamed in through the window to show the devastation.

“No!” Jillian screamed then choked out a sob.

As much as she didn’t want to turn on the light, she had to see the extent of the injury. When she flicked on the lamp, Jillian gasped as one knee hit the floor. The side of Dalia’s skull had a hole in it, the blood staining her long blonde hair. Jillian’s heart stopped for a few seconds. While it appeared as if her friend was dead, Jillian checked for a pulse anyway. Unfortunately, her own heartbeat was near to bursting, preventing her from detecting any signs of life.

Her instincts clicked in, and she fumbled in her purse for her cell to call 911. The words to describe what happened barely formed on her lips, but the operator assured her help was on the way.

This couldn’t be happening. Jillian’s front door had been locked, and she doubted Dalia would have answered if someone had knocked. Had he busted in? Or was he more sophisticated than that and had picked the lock?

Grief rocked her as tears streamed down her face. It was déjà vu all over again. Twenty-six years ago, an unwanted shifter had broken into her home and shot and killed her father. She’d seen the killer then, and she’d sort of seen him now—or rather she’d smelled him again. The stress of both murders made her whole body feel as if a ten-ton truck was sitting on her, breaking her bones into tiny pieces.

The image of the man with the crescent-shaped scar that she’d seen this afternoon at the police station appeared in her mind’s eye. Jillian had spotted him when she’d stopped in to see Camille. Because Jillian had helped with the party preparations, she needed to discuss some last-minute details with her friend. Halfway through her conversation, the same stench that permeated her house had registered. It had come from the man who’d killed her father. She’d been sure of it. Working hard not to let Camille know what was happening, Jillian had glanced around. Big mistake. The second she spotted the man’s crescent-shaped scar on his jaw, she’d almost shifted. Then reason intruded. The man was a cop for goddess sake.

It is the same man
, her tiger warned, angry at the quick dismissal.

It can’t be him
, she argued.

She didn’t have to be a lawyer to know that memories of a six-year old were never reliable. Because scars weren’t unique, she dismissed the thought that it was the same man.

You’re wrong
, her tiger screamed.
You never forget a scent
.

Her tiger might be right. His smell was identical to what she remembered all those years ago. Or had spotting the scar brought up that memory and was fooling her now?

*

Frank Whitlaw slammed
his palm against the steering wheel. Seconds ago, he’d been gloating that he’d finally tied up that loose end and that he wouldn’t have to worry again about a six-year-old’s memory returning.

He’d jammed the key into the ignition and floored his souped-up car. A quick glance in the rear view mirror assured him that Jillian hadn’t shifted. Even if she had chanced coming after him, she would have never been able to catch him.

How had he been so careless? For years, Frank had watched Jillian Garner—carefully. He knew where she lived, where she worked, who her friends were, and even where her relatives lived. Nothing escaped him. Then this afternoon when Jillian was visiting her friend Camille at the station, he’d walked near. The moment she’d glanced his way, recognition crossed her face. Even though barely a muscle moved, hatred had filled her eyes.

That mistake on his part sped up his decision to kill her. When he’d picked the lock to Jillian’s house, he’d made enough noise to waken any shifter. He’d expected her to come out and investigate. His plan was to then shift into his wolf and attack. Even though he didn’t know her species, it didn’t matter. He’d trained his whole life to be a fighter. Jillian was destined to die.

He should have questioned why the blonde woman in the bed hadn’t stirred. Even more careless of him was the fact he hadn’t detected a shifter signature, yet he didn’t stop to think why that was so. He was slipping, and that really pissed him off.

The next time, he wouldn’t fail. His thoughts jumped back to the night he’d broken into the Garner house. He wouldn’t have had to kill her father if the straight ass cop hadn’t suspected him of pilfering weapons and drugs from the evidence locker where he worked. Garner had said he was going to turn Frank in to Internal Affairs. No way he’d let that happen. The money was too addicting.

As he cleared Jillian’s neighborhood, his shaking hands stilled. He’d fucked up tonight. Hopefully, the mask prevented Jillian from figuring out who he was. While he might have botched this first attempt, it wouldn’t happen the next time. That was a promise he’d be sure to keep.

*

“Ma’am?” a male
voice asked as he placed a hand on her shoulder. Jillian looked up to find two paramedics in navy blue uniforms standing next to her.

She hadn’t even heard them come in. Jillian must be losing it since noises never escaped her notice. And how come their faces were so blurry? “Yes?”

“We need to check on your friend,” the guy with the long face said.

Even though she was still holding her phone, she’d forgotten for a moment that she’d called for help. When she didn’t move, the second paramedic helped her up.

Pull yourself together
, her tiger demanded.

I’m trying, but it’s so damned hard
, she retorted.

Both men checked Dalia, and then the one with the long face stepped over to her. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

So she was dead. Why would anyone want to kill her? “Thank you.”

Jillian’s heart nearly cracked. Or were those her bones, readying her to shift into her tiger?

I want to find the bastard
, her animal growled.

Stand down
, she demanded. The last thing she needed was for her caged animal to go off half-cocked. Jillian had spent years steeling her human, making her strong enough to fight her tiger’s urges. Right now, she was losing the battle.

Jillian wasn’t sure how long she’d stood there, but sirens sounded outside and then the paramedics moved out of the room, leaving Dalia in her resting position. No sooner had they left the bedroom than two police officers came in. One was a shifter; the other was not.

“Ma’am.”

Her eyes took a moment to focus through the tears. When the man’s face became clear, a giant claw ripped at her gut. No! No! No! The evil person who’d killed Dalia and her father—or so she believed—stood before her.

I have to be wrong,
her logical side screamed.

No you aren’t
, her pushy tiger countered.

His foul scent once more seeped in through her nose and triggered that horrible memory along with the more recent one. Her tiger demanded that she shift and kill him right there, but she couldn’t give in. As much as she wanted to rip him apart, she refused to let her anger take over. She’d have to find a way to prove he was the killer first. Then she’d bring him down legally.

Jillian drew on her lawyer calm and studied him. The man was tall, maybe six feet and had weathered skin, close-set eyes, and a weak chin. He also had that two-inch scar on his right jaw.

The instinct to flee was strong, but Jillian had to act as if she had no idea he’d committed this heinous act. Because alcohol tainted her breath, she believed she could use that to her advantage, and pretend she’d seen nothing—or almost nothing.

“We’d like to ask you a few questions,” the man with the crescent-shaped scar said. He turned to his female partner. “Can you take her statement? I need to call the crime scene unit.”

“Sure.”

He sounds so professional. Could he be the killer?
her human side questioned.

Yes
, her tiger immediately responded as she scraped her nails along the lining of Jillian’s stomach, probably to show the strength of her conviction.

Focus
. Jillian had been introduced to many of Camille’s coworkers, but she’d never seen this woman before. Her nametag read Rodriguez. She was human and stood about five foot five, the same height as Jillian. The officer’s skin was a warm honey color, and thankfully, her dark brown eyes exuded sympathy. Concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, Jillian followed her out to the living room.

“Please, have a seat,” the officer said. “Can you tell me what happened?”

Jillian decided to mix truth with fiction, all the while pretending to possess only human traits—that is, someone who didn’t have exceptional hearing or fantastic eyesight. She sure as hell wasn’t about to mention how fast she’d rushed into the house. The only stroke of luck was that the killer hadn’t been the one to interrogate her.

“I was at a bachelorette party all night. I probably shouldn’t have been driving home after drinking, but it wasn’t far.” Jillian waved a hand, wanting to keep talking before she received a lecture about drinking and driving. “Anyway, as I drove up, I saw a masked man charge out of my front door.” She slurred a few of her words for effect. “He ran down the street and drove off.”

“Did you see what kind of car he was driving?” the officer asked with no signs of disgust.

Jillian shook her head. “It was dark, and when I saw him come out of my house, my heart beat so fast I couldn’t catch my breath, let alone register what was happening.” She’d never be able to explain how she’d caught the first three digits of the license plate, as no human would have been able to see them from so far away. The fast beating heart, however, wasn’t a lie. Otherwise, she would have memorized the entire license plate number. “I do remember that it wasn’t a truck or a van.”

The officer jotted down the information. “What time was this?”

“I can’t be sure exactly, but I think I left the party around one, so maybe it was 1:15 before I arrived home.” That was the truth.

All throughout the questioning, Jillian wondered what the man was doing in the spare bedroom. Was he making sure he hadn’t left any evidence? It wasn’t like she could mention to the female officer that her partner had killed her friend because he smelled the same as her intruder. Humans didn’t have a keen sense of smell.

“Can you describe what he looked like?” she asked.

Jillian had said the man wore a mask. “He was maybe six feet tall. He might have been middle aged because his gait appeared stiff.” That was all she was going to say. If the man believed she could identify him, he might come after her.

The officer kept asking her what seemed like the same questions over and over again. Even the ones about Dalia and her contact information were difficult. Eventually, two more people arrived with cameras and cases. Given they wore overalls and then slipped on disposable booties and head covers, they must be with the crime scene unit. Her house now a crime scene, Jillian figured it was a matter of time before they asked her to leave.

“I don’t want to stay here tonight. I’d have nightmares. Would it be okay if I packed a few things and went over to a friend’s house?” Her plan to escape town had evolved during the questioning.

“Absolutely. You can’t remain here anyway. Where will you be staying so we can keep in touch?”

The first name that came to mind was Camille’s. “Camille Williams. She works for the LAPD.”

The officer wrote her name down. “That’s perfect.”

For effect, Jillian staggered as she left the living room. Unfortunately, she had to pass the guest room before reaching the master, so she forced herself not to look. As quickly as she could, she threw warm clothes into a suitcase. Tennessee, where her brother lived, would be cold in February. She picked that location in part because Jillian wanted to be as far away from Scarface as possible. Dalton also would be able to help her figure out what to do next. Her clients might revolt that she’d skipped town, but they would be more upset if she were murdered.

Something niggled at the back of her mind at that thought. Had the bullet that killed Dalia been meant for her?

‡