Page 10 of Sawyer

“Stop saying my name like that.”

The edges of his lips lift ever so slightly, as though he doesn’t want to find me amusing but does. “Like what, baby girl?”

“Don’t ever…” I grumble at him. “How did you get up here so fast?” I ask, trying to move past the endearment.

“Ran.” He winks at me, throwing me off guard, especially when he gazes at me as though I’m not just an annoying reporter.

“What are you going to do with me?” I press again, looking away from his eyes and that damn expression on his face that threatens to curl my toes.

Wrong place, wrong time.

“Like I said, we will discuss this later at a time that is convenient for me. Right now, you are fucking up my crime scene.” He taps me on the bicep, pushing me to the side before he crouches down to peer at the exposed toe. “Guess it’s too much to ask that you take off?” As he asks, he glances at the sky, his handsome face frowning before he turns to me.

“I’m not leaving.” I stand my ground and tense every single muscle I can.

Grunting at me, he mumbles, “Too late to let you run off on your own anyway. I’d hate to find your dead body out here as well.” Turning back to the body, he snaps on gloves and rustles the leaves over the toe.

Ever so slowly, he exposes the top of a bare foot. Pale white skin frozen in death rests against the darkness of the leaves, and a single bruise blossoms across one side of the foot. Inch by inch, Rumor uncovers one side of a body.

“Fuck,” Rumor mutters as he inhales slowly. His gaze locks on mine as he reaches for his walkie-talkie. He places a finger on his lips before he presses down. “Rumor here, one point three miles north of body one. I’ve got another gamma.” He glances at me out of the corner of his eye. His words have a double meaning.

Ice-cold fear washes through me, and my knee-jerk reaction is to ask questions and demand answers. I grind my teeth to prevent myself from talking over Rumor as the static of his walkie flares and another voice comes through.

“One more on the eastern ravine.”

“One to the far north.”

Again, Rumor presses his finger to his lips, sharing this with me. This moment means more to me than it ever will to him. For me, I’m invested as a gamma. The world has always viewed us as disposable and expendable. In Rumor’s eyes, I can see he doesn’t believe that, and he’s giving this to me.

At what cost?

“Five bodies.” Sighing, Rumor continues, “Set the pups free. I’m dropping a pin on my location. I have a meeting I need to attend. Rumor out.”

The crackle echoes all around us, giving a sense of finality to his conversation, and yet I don’t speak as I stare at the woman lying at my feet.

“Can you…” Emotion builds in my throat until I can’t do anything but point at her head.

Nodding once, Rumor crab walks and uncovers her face.

I step to the side as he brushes off a pile of leaves that the murderer thought would keep her body hidden. Her throat catches the sunlight first, revealing a line across her delicate neck. Then I see her chin, once round and soft with a small dimple at the edge, now bruised and possibly broken. I keep watching as the rest of the leaves are brushed away, until her brown eyes gaze unseeing at the sky. Fear remains etched into a face I’ve seen before.

One I worked with long ago, shared drinks with, and laughed alongside between sets.

Tears burn my vision, and bile rises in my throat. I swallow multiple times while my eyes lock onto her brown hair.

Most gammas have brown hair, brown eyes, and soft features. Once upon a time, someone gave us the nickname brownie, lending truth to the mythical creatures who cleaned homes and cooked for the elite packs of our society.

It’s stupid, but it’s the first thing I think when I see her face. Our last conversation was about how neither of us would ever become a brownie.

“You know her,” Rumor states simply. There’s no cruelty in his voice, only fact, as he keeps his emotional distance from the moment.

“Cherry.” One rogue tear slips free of my eye, sliding down my cheek. I brush the emotional baggage off my skin and sniffle. “She used to work in the slums at a club called Haven.”

“Is Cherry her real name or a stage name?”

We all have a code we never break—never give away our real identities—but I think, in this case, it’s warranted. “Jenny Wolf.” I lick my dry lips and finally turn away to take a deep breath.

Now the stench of rotten cherries makes even more sense. She always had the faint scent of cherries on her skin, and she played it up on the stage, dancing to old songs and wearing little panties with cherries on the front. The customers loved it. They loved her.

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