Chapter 11
The next afternoon, though, life appeared significantly grimmer yet again. Four months of working with the FBI hadn’t turned up a single shifter-related case...or at least none had smelled like werewolf to me. But as I stared down at yet another corpse by Robert’s side, I found myself doubting the efficacy of my own nose.
“Definitely the same MO,” my partner murmured, his eyes intent upon the newest victim. Like the one-body that my wolf had tried to gnaw upon a week earlier, this man’s face had been sliced and diced postmortem. And, once again, neither I nor my inner beast had been able to pick out the faintest hint of werewolf associated with the scene of the crime.
Despite the evidence to the contrary, though, I found myself wavering rather than jumping to the obvious conc
