Parker opened the van’s rear doors and Vic came forward without being asked to help remove the black-wrapped bundle from the floor of the cargo area. The stench was strong and immediate, but it wasn’t the smell of rotting flesh. It was the smell of rotting food, from the garbage the body had been buried under.

Together, Vic and Parker lowered the bundle to the straw-strewn floor, then pulled strips of duct tape from the plastic, unwrapping the giant burrito and exposing the body beneath a smattering of putrefied lettuce, tomatoes, olives, and noodles.

Inhaling deeply through my mouth, I forced all traces of disgust from my expression and made myself look at the victim.

He was about my age, maybe a couple of years older, with freckles and nearly black eyes, which I could see because no one had bothered to close them. Or maybe the eyelids had simply refused to cooperate.

At a glance, I couldn’t tell that his neck was broken, but I was more than wil ing to take Parker’s word for it.

My father wasn’t. He knelt next to the man’s left shoulder and grabbed a handful of soiled brown hair, then gave the head a tug to the right. It moved with no visible resistance, and chills crept up my spine at the faint scraping of bones grinding together. His neck hadn’t just been broken. It had been broken in two. As in a completely severed spinal cord. He’d never stood a chance.

Our Alpha stood, brushing straw and dirt from his knee. “Ethan, check his ID.”

Ethan dug in the man’s back right pocket and came out with a thin black leather wallet, folded into thirds, which he handed over without opening.

My father took the wallet and rifled through the contents. He didn’t pass it around, nor did he remove anything. “Robert Harper.

Twenty-three. From Picayune.”

Mississippi. He’d lived in the free territory, which was no surprise.

“So what was he doing in New Orleans?” Owen asked. I’d been wondering the same thing.

“He could have been doing anything,” Parker said. “Or anyone. But whatever he was doing, it must have been pretty important for him to risk trespassing on south-central territory.”

“Not necessarily.” Al eyes turned to Marc, who stood leaning against the van, his arms crossed over his chest and one foot propped on a rear tire. “Picayune’s less than an hour from New Orleans, and we only have, what, two Pride cats living there other than Holden? What are the chances that either of them would get close enough to sniff him out?

He’s probably made countless trips without us ever knowing. It wouldn’t be much of a risk for him.”

My father nodded in agreement. “Unfortunately, we can’t be everywhere al the time, and Harper obviously knew that.”

“Well, someone sure as hell sniffed him out this time,” Jace said.

“Evidently.” My father turned to me, and I held my breath. I dreaded catching his attention the way a child who hasn’t done her homework fears being called out by the teacher.

“How does Parker’s body compare with yours?”

Great. A pop quiz, I thought, recognizing his transition into lecture mode.

“How does Parker’s body compare with mine? Hmm.” I gave Parker a quick, theatrical once-over, and he smiled, clearly catching on to my line of thought. “Nice legs and killer biceps. But I have better boobs. No question.”

My father frowned, but not before a flicker of amusement flashed across his face. If I hadn’t been looking for it, I never would have seen it.

“Faythe…”

“Oh, fine.” I barely resisted the urge to roll my eyes, gathering my thoughts for the test he’d just presented. “There don’t seem to be many differences at a glance.”

Our esteemed Alpha nodded, and I continued, walking slowly around the body as I spoke. “The only difference I see at the moment is their respective ages. Harper was twenty-three, and Moore was about a decade older. Each apparently died of a broken neck. Both men are Caucasian, and both are strays. Both are sturdy in build, which makes me wonder how an attacker could get close enough to either of them to break his neck without suffering so much as a scratch.” Okay, technically Marc had pointed that out first, but if he could borrow my shower, I could borrow his wisdom. Right?

Squatting on the ground next to the corpse, I made myself examine the fingers. “And based on the lack of blood and tissue beneath their nails, I’m going to assume I’m right about that.”

I glanced up at my father, and he nodded for me to go on, his face carefully devoid of any expression. Behind him, Marc beamed at me, obviously pleased. I smiled at him and stood, rubbing my hands on the front of my shorts out of habit, though I hadn’t actually touched the corpse.

“Both bodies were found on our territory, but near the Mississippi border, each less than an hour from his own home.” I paused, closing my eyes in thought as the gears in my brain whirred fast enough to make me dizzy. “Oh, wait. I just thought of another difference.” A second pause.

“No, two.”

“Go on.” Though my father’s face remained unreadable, I thought I detected a hint of encouragement in his tone.

“Assuming they died where they were found, Robert Harper was killed in the middle of New Orleans, but Bradley Moore died in an empty field in Arkansas, miles from anything but empty fields and a small patch of woods.”

“And the other difference?” Marc prompted.

“Moore’s murder was reported, albeit anonymously, but Harper’s was not. In fact, it’s a miracle Parker and Holden found him before anyone else did.”