Chloe Neill - Howling For You

I dressed and met Jeff downstairs, where he waited by the front door.

“I’ll drive,” I said, and he didn’t argue. My car was small—a coupe that could be easily parked in Chicago, but had enough horsepower to zip around traffic. Or mow down a potential with a traitorous agenda. Not that I had violence on my mind.

Jeff didn’t respond or say anything else until we were in the car and ten minutes into the drive. And then he surprised me.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I was an ass. You don’t deserve that. Not when you’re trying to do the right thing by your family. It’s just . . . you don’t know what it’s like for me.”

I goggled. I knew exactly what it was like—because I was the one living under the weight of it. “I know exactly what it’s like for you. You don’t know what it’s like for me.”

“Then tell me. Don’t pull away.”

“I don’t pull away.”

“You do pull away. You hide behind your family.”

“I do not.”

“You do.” His voice softened. “You do, Fal.”

I sighed, feeling suddenly tired. “We’re adults, not children. Sometimes adults don’t get what they want. Even if it hurts,” I added after a moment.

His voice was quiet. Hopeful. “And what is it that you want?”

I knew what he wanted me to say. What he needed me to say. But I couldn’t. Because if I admitted it to him, to myself, that I wanted him, that I cared for him and needed him, then I’d be admitting that everything else had been a lie. That every date with every potential had been a farce, that I wasn’t really trying to find a match for the good of the Pack.

So I didn’t say anything.

Jeff made a low growl and ran his hands through his hair. “I swear to god, Fallon. Sometimes . . .”

“Sometimes what?”

He sighed hugely. “Sometimes life is not fair.” He was quiet for a moment, then looked over and smiled at me. “Will I get in trouble if I ask how the date went?”

“So much trouble,” I said, but couldn’t help smiling back. And when I did, the world seemed to right itself again. “It was dull until, you know, he broke into my house and stole my family’s birthright.”

“So you probably won’t be going out with him again. Which means I have a chance.”

The hotel was located in Gold Coast, a swanky neighborhood just north of the bustling Loop. The building that housed it matched the area’s ivy-covered townhouses, but the lobby was modern and sleek, decorated in shades of white and cream. The attendants at the front desk, both men with slicked back hair, wore buttoned shirts with rolled sleeves, suspenders, and bow ties. It was either very hip or very pretentious; I wasn’t entirely sure which.

We walked to the counter. The attendant—Cash, according to his name tag—smiled at us.

“Welcome to the Hotel Meridian. Are you checking in?”

“We’re looking for a guest, actually. Patrick York?”

“Ah, yes.” He glanced down at his screen, typed a few characters on a slide-out keyboard. “I’m afraid Mr. York has already checked out. Just a few minutes ago.”

I stifled a curse.

Cash looked up, apologetic. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

Jeff and I looked at each other, and I opted for frankness. “We believe Mr. York may have inadvertently taken something that belonged to my family.”

Cash’s eyes went wide. “Really.”

I nodded. “Since he’s gone, would it be possible for us to take a look at his room? I know it’s an inconvenience, but it would make my family feel a lot better.”

He grimaced. “That’s not exactly policy.”

“The guest has checked out,” I reminded him. “So there’s no breach of the policy. We just want to see if perhaps there’s anything he might have left behind.”

Jeff put his hand on the counter, a folded hundred-dollar bill tucked subtly between his fingers. “We’d appreciate it very much.”

Cash’s eyes stayed flat, but he took the money and handed us a keycard. “Sixteen twenty-eight,” he said, gesturing with a bladed hand toward the elevators. “Help yourselves.”

The elevator was empty, and it moved slowly and steadily up the side of the building, adding or subtracting a guest here or there. When we reached the sixteenth floor, we followed the arrows to the right, checking the room numbers until we reached 1628.

“Got it,” I said, holding out my hand for the key card. Jeff handed it over, and I unlocked the door and pushed it open.

“Damn,” Jeff said, stepping inside behind me. “I think the Yorks have money.”

If the suite was any indication, he was right. A central hallway led to a bathroom, a bedroom, and a sitting area with a view of the lake. The furniture was high-end, the linens fancy. Silk curtains in wide vertical stripes were tied back at the windows. The room hadn’t yet been cleaned, which gave us better odds of finding some hint of what he’d been up to.

“Probably so. He had a driver yesterday.”

“Fancy,” Jeff said. “I’ll take the bedroom. You look in here.”

I walked to the small desk, opened the drawer, and rifled through complimentary stationary and Chicago-centric magazines. I found another guest’s discarded receipt for the observation deck at the Hancock Tower, dated more than a month ago, and a cellophane-wrapped peppermint.

Nothing had been lost between the couch cushions, nothing stuffed into the pillows. I found only dust bunnies under the couch, and the wastebasket was empty.

The sitting room checked, I walked to the door of the bedroom.

Jeff had pulled the sheets, pillow, and duvet from the bed and was methodically checking them.

“Nightstands?” I asked.

“Not yet,” he said, without looking up.

I walked to the far side of the bed, pulled open the drawer. The usual Bible was there, and a small notepad. Nothing else. Ditto the nightstand on the other side.

When I’d checked both, I stood up, put my hands on my hips, and surveyed the room. I wasn’t sure what I’d expected to find; it wasn’t like he’d have forgotten to take the crown with him, or left crown crumbs in a Hansel and Gretel–style trail.

“Fallon.”

I looked up. Jeff stood on the other side of the bed, motioned me to approach. The bed had four short posters. And in the corner of the poster at the foot of the bed, on the side closest to the door, was a scrap of dark fabric.

It was wedged tightly, caught on the end of a bedspring that had poked through the cover. I carefully lifted it, held it up.

It was purple velvet, the same fabric used on the cushion that protected the crown.

“Jesus,” Jeff said. “I was hoping it was a coincidence. That really sucks.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “It really, really sucks.”

I ignored the flickers of humiliation, sat down on the bed, pulled out my phone, and sent a picture of the fabric to Gabe and a status report. While we waited for a response, I tucked the fabric in my pocket, evidence of the crime.

Jeff sat down beside me. “I can kick his ass if you’d like.”

I smiled mirthlessly. “I’d like. But I still think it’s weird. I mean, I know don’t know him very well, but I wouldn’t have suspected this. Breaking into the house? Stealing the crown?” I shook my head. “He was so mild mannered.”

“If your date didn’t go well, maybe he thought it was his only other option. Did he say anything that suggested he had a plan?”

I shrugged. “He asked about the initiation. Wondered if it bothered me that Connor gets the crown instead of me.”

Jeff snorted. “I’m surprised you didn’t kick his ass for that. Or maybe you just gave him your ‘most displeased’ look.”