TWENTY-SIX

Billie

"WHAT'S GOING ON?" Taylor wonders as she turns the SUV around the bend of our circular driveway, stopping not far from the unexpected sheriff's car parked off to the side ahead of us.

The four of us came back from Southie late on Sunday, and haven't really hashed things out yet. There's a strain in our relationship that needs to be addressed. We were all exhausted when we got home. I slept the entire ride. Ethan actually carried me out of the car and straight to bed. Monday and Tuesday we were thrown into our normal hectic schedules, with the addition of a travel soccer game. I did sit with them in the van, but similar to the ride home from Southie, I passed out within five minutes of the vehicle moving, like a newborn lulled to sleep by the steady hum of a car being driven around the neighborhood by overexhausted parents. Almost dying really takes a toll on the body, and today is the first day I've felt the energetic and playful portions of me have finally been fully restored.

Alessandro and Xander decided it was best to get Councilman Swanson involved with the shifters from the boxing match. Swanson, MacNeill, and Smith have all shown their support for us over the last couple of weeks and have definitely more than had our backs. With Alessandro, Elder Allan, and Councilman Swanson all working together on gathering, sifting through, and interpreting any data related to the deaths of shifters over the last fifty years that would've resulted in a child becoming an orphan, they've gotten to know each other. Alessandro trusts Swanson a decision that was bolstered with two grunts of approval from the twins. High praise.

Clyde and Randall's names showed up on the list of orphaned shifters, and Randall confirmed—shit, provided more evidence of—the truth we didn't really want to hear: children have been orphaned, imprisoned, pricked, prodded, and who knows what the fuck else for probably close to twenty years. Randall and Clyde for over a decade personally. I can't even imagine what their lives were like, how they endured that kind of agony and soul-sucking existence for so long. Keeping Randall and Clyde away from Swanson would have been like hiding integral pieces to a jigsaw puzzle under couch cushions. Apparently, the council has safe houses scattered around the world that are similar to those used by the FBI for witness protection, and Swanson quickly went to work on procuring one in our area for Clyde and Randall. I guess Owen was not open to helping and remained combative and unagreeable, and no, I did not ask for specifics on how he was "handled" when the twins let me know he was handled.

The Den signed an NDA, with Xander being the overseeing authority, meaning no one else but us needs to know about it. They added a clause for termination in the event of a new contract being signed, meaning a royal decree. Alessandro and I both groaned out our displeasure and sunk down low in our chairs at the talk of more paperwork; we slid all the way under the table, giggling with each other. He has a truly authentic, youthful side to him. We ended up playing a quick but fierce game of the Floor Is Lava with Jax late Saturday night, until things got out of hand and sapped all of my energy.

Seeing the sheriff's car on our approach, I quickly unbuckle my seatbelt and sling my bags over my shoulders, ready to rush out the door. "I have no idea," I mutter in reply, hand on the handle, anxiety churning my stomach. My phone is in my bag, and I don't want to waste time searching for it when I'm pretty sure it's been on and I haven't heard any notifications go off.

Taylor parks. "You want me to go in with you?"

"Nah, I've got it. Thanks though. I'll text if it's anything bad," I answer over my shoulder with the door swung open and one foot on the ground.

"Okay, if you're sure." She checks in one last time, turning toward me.

"Totally sure," I affirm with a nod while somehow managing to just close the door instead of slamming it; all I want to do is get in the freakin' house. Hustling my ass up the walkway as fast as I can with a full backpack and full soccer bag weighing me down, I try to manage my breath so I can keep my thoughts under control, but my hand is shaking when I punch in the alarm code and shove open the front door. The sound of hushed voices from the great room does nothing to ease my concerns. Letting the door swing shut, I kick off my sneakers and toss my bags at the bottom of the stairs, then make my way down the dimly lit entry hall to the great room brightly lit by the inset overhead lights and the oversized wood and steel chandelier that constantly has me casting wary glances upward. The fixture looks way too heavy to be suspended from the ceiling.

The first sliver of relief I feel is seeing that all three of my mates are alive and here sitting on the couch. The second is the easy posture of Officer O'Rourke. He's reclined in Ethan's Chair of Solitude, hat on his bent knee with a coffee mug in hand while he talks with the guys. His eyes are on my face when I come into view, as if he was expecting me. I guess I didn't make the quietest of entrances.

"Ah, Ms. Mahoney," he says, setting his coffee down on a coaster and standing up with his hat in one hand. "It's good to see you again."

The backs of my mates' heads aren't giving me great insight into what they're feeling, so I check in with the bonds, finding a mixture of relief, uneasiness, anxiousness, and... grief maybe? Acting like gentlemen, they all stand with Officer O'Rourke when I come around the back of the couch. Stepping over to the opposite side across from them, I shake O'Rourke's extended hand before sitting down in one of the spindle chairs.

"Um, right," I sputter. "Sorry, yeah," I pull on my ear, "Sorry, Officer O'Rourke, you're a nice man and all, and I want to say it's good to see you too, but I just don't know if seeing an officer at night in our house is a good thing, you know?" I end that spectacular word cluster with an awkward titter.

They all sit back down, and O'Rourke offers me a micro-smile. "Yes, I fully understand, Ms. Mahoney." Sighing, he returns his hat to its perch over his knee and leans back into the chair at an angle that is inclusive of my position in the room. "I was just informing your boyfriends here," he says with a tip of his chin toward them while keeping his eyes on me, "that there's been a new development with your case regarding Mr. Knight."

I glance over at the guys, and they're all looking down at their laps. Turning back to O'Rourke, I draw out a long "Okay." Feeling uneasy, I tuck my legs up under me and pull my sleeves down over my hands. "Want to bring me up to speed?"

He looks to the guys again as if asking them if they want to say anything, but none of them have lifted their gaze. What the fuck is going on? O'Rourke returns his focus to me. "A body of an adult male was discovered at the bottom of a rocky ravine near one of the scenic overlooks yesterday morning."

My eyes go wide in shock while I inhale a sharp gasp and cover my gaping mouth with my sleeve-covered hands. He dips his chin in the shallowest of confirmations and then continues in a worn voice. "We were able to positively ID him this morning though." He hesitates. My eyes are pulled to the couch as Jax adjusts his position closer to Xander, pressing his shoulder firmly against Xander's and uncrossing his arms so that his hands are loose palms up in invitation in his lap. Xander's head remains bowed, the set of his jaw is rigid, and his arms are so tightly coiled around his midsection that I get the impression of a landmine. One touch and he could detonate, causing a massive explosion. Ethan holds his reclined position on Xander's other side. He looks casual, with his fingers loosely interlaced low on his lap, but I notice there's no space between him and Xander. Bad that this person is dead? Maybe big deal? Shit, who is dead?

"Why'd it take a day to ID him?" I blurt, trailing my eyes back to O'Rourke. Don't know why I didn't ask who the dead guy was. Maybe I'm nervous about finding out, trying to postpone hearing what has my mates looking so shaken.

O'Rourke's face pinches the slightest amount, and he rolls his top lip between his teeth, sucking on the ends of his mustache before releasing a long exhale. "Well, there was no ID with the body, or clothes for that matter." A naked dead man, that's unsettling. His brows pinch a little tighter. "And though we were able to determine the approximate time of death was between Friday night around six to Saturday morning around ten, the. . ." His face pales. Swiping his index finger and thumb down around the corners of his mustache, he clears his throat. "Though we do average around twenty to twenty-five deaths of hikers every year here in the White Mountains, and I'm not unaccustomed to the ways of nature, the wildlife's involvement hampered our ability to definitively identify the body visually. But with the use of fingerprints, the body has been identified as William Bryson Knight."

Holy shitballs.

My eyes swing to Xander, who's still motionless. Not one of them is willing to lift their heads to meet my surprised gaze. Returning my attention to O'Rourke, and really wanting to ask is if he was eaten to death (because I can totally envision a shifter death sentence by teeth and claws), I eke out, "Have you determined the cause of death?" The words feel like sand in my suddenly very arid mouth.

He grunts a nod. "Based on the blood work, it's most likely he died from cardiac arrest. He also sustained a head contusion, perhaps from falling. The other bodily wounds that we've examined thus far appear to have been sustained postmortem. His blood alcohol level was extremely high. We're waiting on the full tox-screen results. As of now, there are no definitive signs of foul play. And upon further investigation, we've found that he had been in and out of work for approximately two weeks and was reported to be acting erratically several weeks before that." He arches a brow. "I'm sure you're at least somewhat aware of that, given his recent harassment of you."

Shit, does he think we had something to do with this? 'Cause we didn't. And if this was a shifter death sentence, why weren't we notified? According to what O'Rourke just stated, Alpha Knight's been dead for days and no one said a word to us. Hell, Xander and Alessandro both talked with Councilman Swanson; you'd think he'd have said something. Was there a hearing? If so, shouldn't we have been present? As, like, the injured party or whatever? Clearly, I've got no idea about any of the shifter laws, if there are some, if there are overruling ones versus smaller ones, like federal and state laws. Feck! I really am going to have to change my name to Donny, aren't I? And again, can I get a shifter welcome packet?

"So he's . . . um . . . dead then?" I stutter more to myself.

"Yes," O'Rourke confirms, his voice strong with the surety I've come to expect from him.

"If that's all," Xander tersely states out of nowhere, making me jolt in my seat, as he seems to have abruptly turned from a wooden statue to a living being. I slyly look around for a cricket named Jiminy. Pressing up to standing, he faces O'Rourke. He gives him no room to reply. "Thank you for coming out, Officer O'Rourke. As we confirmed, we were all out of town this past weekend. I'll reach out to my mother and my gran so we can discuss his funeral arrangements once you've released the body."

O'Rourke places his hat on his head, and with a few tired groans, he pushes up to address Xander. "I just wanted to be the one that told you and confirmed your alibis. At this time, it doesn't seem like alibis will be needed," he says with a shrug. "I like to be thorough. Also—" He coughs. "His lawyer has been contacted." He pauses and grunts. "He seemed surprised and remorseful but also hurried, as if he needed to start getting your father's affairs in order promptly, like things were time sensitive." He swiftly snaps his mouth shut as if he just realized he shared more than he planned to. "Anyway, he'll most likely be calling you in the morning." He tips his hat to Xander. "I'll see myself out, and I'm here if you need anything."

Xander walks O'Rourke out without a word. He quietly closes and locks the door, sets the alarm, and leans his forehead against the door with his forearms braced on either side.

"Xander," Jax calls out in a soothing tone while we slowly approach our alpha. "Come on, talk to us. We're here for you."

Xander incoherently mumbles something . . . to the door.

The three of us have stopped midway down the open hall, not wanting to crowd him. Ethan tilts his head to the side while scratching his chin with his thumb and index finger. He queries, "What did you say?"

Xander rotates his body around until the back of his head rests on the door with his arms hanging loosely at his sides. He exhales. "Five years, seven months, and thirteen days."

Jax rubs the back of his neck and blurts "What?" But I gasp out in recognition. My hands fly up to cover my once-again-gaping mouth. Because I know. I know what five years, seven months, and thirteen days means.

It's the same as three hundred and fifty-three days were for me.

Xander's body shoots up straight, and his now-wide eyes snap to me. My hands may be covering my mouth, but there's no hiding the huge smile on my face or the tears rolling down my cheeks. At first, his expression is one of open shock, then creased with concern. But hell, I'm beaming with happiness right now, like sunbeams of pure joy are radiating out of every pore and rainbows are probably shooting out of my ass. There's no way for him to not be affected by the enthusiastic energy blasting off me.

A small smile creeps across Xander's gorgeous face, and his eyes are shining with unshed tears as he comes to fully stand. His gaze stays on me. "Five years, seven months, and thirteen days," he softly says in a rough voice through tentatively grinning lips. It's as if he's afraid truly smiling would wake him from this dream and shatter the illusion of freedom that, at this moment, is real.

My vision is blurred, and my body is warm and fuzzy. Time has slowed to where it's become palpable like molasses on my skin. Everything seems so surreal. But this is real. Feeling the syrupy sweet emotions of unbelievable elation pool in my throat, I jostle my head and choke out, giggling, "No more counting!" Then I break through the gooeyness surrounding me, sprinting toward Xander. Time begins to move once more, keeping pace with me, only to still for one precious, unforgettable moment when I leap into the air. Suspended in both time and space, watching Xander's face transform into the child he was before he personally knew abuse. Before he experienced the sting of his father's first verbal barb. Before he knew the pain of a hand smacking his face or the burn of his skin slicing open from the crack of a belt. Before he counted his first day. And then, like I've exited some sort of slipstream between the past and the present, he easily catches me like he had all the time in the world.

Banding my legs around his waist and hanging off his neck with one arm, I fist pump the air, gleefully chanting, "No more counting! No more counting! No more counting!"