Page 34 of To Hunt A Wolf
On the other side of the door, I can hear her talking on the phone. Her voice is low, but I catch some of it anyway. Something about sending someone else. I’m surprised to realize she’s being offered a job—and she’s turning it down.
For the chance to babysit me.
Ugh.
Of all the ways Tripp could have sabotaged my plan to hunt him and Levi, this is the most underhanded of them all. I spend the rest of my time in the shower thinking up all the ways I plan to get him back for this.
When I’m done, I rifle through the bag and sigh.
The “things” my mother brought me leave a lot to be desired. The oldest shirt I own. A sleeveless, ripped thing I should have thrown out but it’s the shirt I wore when I took down my first mark. Sentimental. Stupid. And the jeans are faded from wear and probably one good roundhouse kick away from shredding right off my body.
It's better than stolen leggings, I guess.
When I emerge, my mother tosses me a protein bar and a bottle of water. “Here,” she says. “Take it on the road. We need to move.”
I plant my feet, bracing for a fight. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“Mac, now’s not the time.”
“Now’s all I have,” I toss back at her.
She rolls her eyes. “There’s no need for dramatics.”
“I haven’t seen you in four months. And now you show up here and start tossing orders before I’m even out of bed.That’sdramatic.”
Her eyes narrow fractionally, and I know it’s the only warning I’ll get before she loses her temper. Most people are scared of a pushed-too-far Vicki Quinn. I’m not most people.
“It’s been four months because I’m a working mother, and I will not apologize for that. Tripp called me because a tracker almost killed you,” she says. “I came because you’re my daughter. And now, we’re going to find out who hired that asshole and why. And then we’re going to kill them. Is that dramatic enough for you?”
I want to argue. To protest or put my foot down. To tell her to leave me alone. But her plan is my plan. And with her help, we’ll get answers faster. I’m not ashamed to admit that my mother has contacts that I don’t. Forty-five years’ worth of them. If anyone can find out who sent that prick, it’s the woman standing before me.
I need her.
Doesn’t mean I have to like it.
“Fine,” I say, hauling my bag over my shoulder. “Nothing like a little mother-daughter murder spree to bond us.”
* * *
Despite the bitein the air, we ride with the top down. After two days cooped up inside that hotel room, I close my eyes and tip my head back against the seat, enjoying the feel of the wind in my tangled hair. My mother’s Jeep is a growly thing that’s been everywhere she has. It’s scarred and scratched—like us—and one of the few fond memories I have from my childhood. Sleeping in the backseat of this thing. Climbing mountains and boulders in search of criminals. Hiding on the floorboard while she tagged them. Then, later, when I was older—helping her take them down.
I’ve lived a lot of my life in this Jeep.
My mother glances over at me as we barrel down the highway. “You can stop trying to scent his trail. The rain has washed it away.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do.”
I scowl.
The woman’s a mind-reader. And she’s not wrong. Any trail I’d hoped to catch of Tripp or even Levi is gone with last night’s rain. It’s like even the weather has decided to take their side. I have no way of knowing whether I’m driving toward or away from wherever they’ve gone. But for now, I can’t focus on that. Or them.
Right now, all I want to know is who the hell tried to kill me.
We drive west for two hours before my mother takes an exit for some place called Indigo Hills.
I’ve never been, but I’ve heard of it.
