Chapter Twenty Seven
Delusional Friends and Dangerous Nostalgia
Nick
I stare at the name, something nagging at the back of my head. This doesn't make sense. Wait, he has a pet store, and veterinarians use these drugs to put down animals in extreme cases. There are other vet clinics on this list, too.
Then why is the same noise that made me follow Elliot all those months ago blaring in my head again?
I rush to my office and open the file on my laptop. I slide to the other columns on the sheet.
Both drugs ordered by Elliot’s clinic. The quantities are almost consistent except when they’re not. Except when they are way higher than the other months.
Maybe Elliot occasionally gets more business than normal? There has to be an explanation. There are over two hundred other names here. They’re all suspicious. Why should I be giving this one any more attention than the others?
My non-Bureau-issued phone buzzes with a call. I look at the screen and see a number that’s not saved on my phone. I try to look away from Pawsitive Care Veterinary Clinic on my laptop screen long enough to focus on the number, but I can't.
Then the screen goes black again.
What the fuck does this mean? It doesn't make any sense.
Why not? A vicious voice in my head says. Elliot knew about werewolves. That's why it all started, didn't it?
Fuck. I don’t want to remember why I started dating him in the first place. Why I knew something was wrong. Why I was stalking him for months.
But then it comes flooding in, all the pieces fitting perfectly to form a picture I want to incinerate.
Instincts, that's what we were always told to rely on as cops.
Instincts that made me be around Elliot. Learn everything about him. Literally follow him like a stalker. Bait him. Spend as much time with him as I possibly can.
Instincts that are insisting I need to find him and ask him what the fuck.
My phone lights up with another call, but I decline it. I'm on a mission. I dial Elliot's number. Straight to voicemail.
I groan loudly and start pacing in my living room.
Why is his phone switched off even if he’s traveling?
My mind gladly supplies me with the scared look on Elliot’s face yesterday morning when he woke up. He flinched when he looked at me. Why? Did he know I was going to find out about him? Is he on the run?
Well, not for long. He doesn’t get to run away from me, not after playing me like a fool.
Because that’s all this was, wasn’t it? Distraction. All of it. He must get off on the idea of defeating me at every step. Laughing at my inability to see what was right in front of me. Laughing at me.
He had his fun turning me into this lovesick idiot who’ll follow him around like a puppy vying for his attention, and now he leaves? Just like that?
Fuck no.
I think back to all the time we spent together. He was so closed off, completely unwilling to let people in. I thought it was because he didn’t trust people easily. I was willing to work to earn it. Hell, I put in that work.
None of my parents’ talks about love said what to do when you find out your lover moonlights as a serial killer.
I laugh at the thought. And once I start, I can’t stop. I wheeze until there’s a stitch in my side. I clutch my desk and chuckle until I feel empty.
I slump down on the chair and look at his clinic's name again.
My phone vibrates again, and this time I pick it up.
“What is it?” I snap.
“Nicholas, it’s Sam,” a man's voice says. “Elliot's friend.”
What game is this now? “What?”
“Have you met him since yesterday?” His voice sounds worried. I try hard to detect any trace of deception, but come up empty. Maybe Elliot was playing Sam, too.
“I left his place yesterday morning. But he texted me he’s leaving,” I tell him. That’s the nice thing to do. Sam did nothing wrong.
“No,” he breathes out. “I received the same message, but he couldn't have sent it.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, annoyed.
“Something is wrong,” he says ominously. “Elliot is missing.”
I sigh. I don’t have the patience for this. Not right now. “Listen, Sam, if he says he left, maybe he left. People leave. They break your trust, stomp on your heart, and flee. You can’t trust anyone, really,” I say. “You—”
“While this is very entertaining, and I’d love to hear more of you waxing poetics about Elliot. But listen to me, he is missing. He wouldn’t leave without telling me. Wherever he is, it’s not by choice. Please find him,” he pleads.
No point talking sense into him when we want the same thing. Finding Elliot. “I can visit his house? If he’s not there, I can break in and see if he left willingly,” I try to go easy on the sarcasm. “Do you know the security code for the door?” Might as well get some assistance while he’s here.
“I’ll text you,” he says urgently.
“Okay.”
“Nick, just— He wouldn’t leave like this. Can you keep me updated?” Naive guy. But then again, I was just like him thirty minutes ago. And he’s not working with much information here.
“Sure,” I assure him and disconnect the call. I finally have the identity of my arch nemesis, and one way or the other, I’m capturing him.
I run down the stairs to my car in my sweats and break all the speed limits on the way to Elliot’s. It’s honestly a surprise I’m not pulled over. But I’m several steps behind, and the only way to catch up now is to hit the accelerator.
I park outside his house and notice his car is still in the driveway.
Of course, he wouldn’t flee in a car registered under his own name.
If that was his real identity to begin with.
He could have rented a car or just taken a cab to the airport since no one was really following him, at least not the human law enforcement.
I get out of my car, my senses heightened to the maximum capacity in my human form. We learn to tone them down as kids, or life would become extremely annoying. Right now, I’d hear if someone so much as sneezed two blocks away.
A mixture of extremely offensive scents hit me all at once. It’s too much. An assault. By Elliot?
No. No no no no. This smell is familiar.
I dial the code Sam texted me right after we got off the call. I push the door open, ignoring the smell choking me, my eyes tearing. I know what I’ll find inside before I even step through the door. The hair on the back of my neck prickles.
Chaos. Pure chaos. Every surface covered with shattered glass, pieces of clothes, junk that Elliot wouldn’t let into his house, even at gunpoint. Eerie calm lingers in the air, but my senses are under attack, fighting for survival.
I lost.
The killer got him first.
I stand there looking at the couch where we had countless dinners, now torn into smithereens.
The television I forced him to watch Brooklyn Nine-Nine on is now smashed.
The kitchen where I cooked for him, where he baked like a professional baker for all of two weeks before refusing ever to do it again, is now covered in broken dishes and scattered food.
There’s a chair in the middle of it all. Set apart from the chaos, as if someone didn’t want any distractions near it.
It’s empty now. But I know from the last two crime scenes, it won’t be for long. The killer already made space to present Elliot’s bruised body to the world.
My claws rip free at the image. My wolf is ready to murder anyone who’d look at Elliot wrong.
No. No.
He can’t have him. Elliot is mine. Mine.
That gets me into action. Every victim was missing for a few days before they were killed. I have time. Fuck, I hope I have time.
I rush out of the house to the driveway. I need to think. My eyes are still itching, tears streaming down my face. But I’ll survive. I need to make sure Elliot does too. He has a lot to answer for.
I pace around the driveway. We haven’t been able to find anything in the case. No suspects. No clues. Maybe I need to look closer. And maybe I need help.
I pull out my phone and call the only person I can think of. Matt picks up at the first ring. “Dude, you were just here—” he starts.
No time. “I need you,” I say. It comes out shaky.
I hear movement on his side. “What's up, Nick?” He asks. “Are you okay?”
“It's Elliot. Please, can you come to his house? I'll send the location,” I say urgently.
“Do you want me to bring Oliver too?”
“No, please don't,” I say and disconnect the call.
I need to get to work. I pull the mask out of my car and walk back into the house. I put on gloves mechanically, my brain already working the crime scene. I look around, trying to find something, anything that will change things this time. Maybe the killer slipped.
Matt makes it in twenty minutes, which I spend turning up every surface in the house. If only I’d been better at my job, less distracted, Elliot would be here with me instead of alone and scared with a stranger.
Matt’s eyes widen as he takes in the house. He’s covered his nose, and his eyes are already red. “What the fuck?”
But he already knows the answer. He’s seen the pictures on my murder boards countless times.
“When was the last time you saw Elliot?” His voice is barely above a breathless whisper.
“Yesterday morning,” I tell him just as quietly. Hollow. “Listen, I’m going to shift and see if I can find something. There's nothing physical here, and I need to segregate the smells.”
Matt nods.
I undress so quickly, I hear a rip. I ignore it and shift. Everything comes into focus. The scent gets better and worse at the same time. It’s still strong, but they are separate enough not to grate against my senses.
I pad around the living room, following different scents to their sources. I nose around every nook and cranny. I trace the familiar scent of Elliot in the bedroom. I want to bury myself in bed.
No. No time. I smell the clothes lying around. Some Elliotts, some not.
I get another familiar whiff from the direction of the side table. I focus on the scent, getting closer to the broken glass pieces. Suddenly, I remember where I smelled it before. The werewolf victim. Mickey's previous owner.
I run up to Matt, who is still in the living room, now wearing a mask of his own. “You found something?” he asks.
I nod and walk him over to the shattered glasses. He carefully picks them up in his gloved hand and puts them into a plastic bag.
I continue my investigation. The fake flowers under the television have a distinct smell, too. It immediately hits me as the third werewolf victim we found dead in his apartment.
I don't ask Matt to collect the evidence this time.
Instead, I shift and dress up again.
“You get anything?” Matt asks, looking around the house, trying not to disturb anything.
I did, but I am not ready to tell Matt just yet. The killer left a message for me.
He’s going to punish Elliot for every werewolf he murdered. And he wants everyone to know it.