“The tabby couldn’t have killed her. Or taken her, or whatever,” Jace said. “Tandy went missing on Thursday night, around the time the tabby was busy killing Bradley Moore. In Arkansas. She didn’t get to New Orleans—that we know of—for two more days.”

“So what does the missing stripper have to do with the dead strays?

Or toms?” Ethan frowned, looking at the body laid out on the bales of hay. “I guess they’re not just strays anymore.”

“Maybe nothing,” my father said. “But maybe…” He turned to face Michael, tired eyes now bright with unspoken ideas. “When we get in, I want you to do a search for missing strippers in Arkansas and Louisiana.

Mississippi and Texas, too.”

Michael nodded. “No problem. You’re thinking there may be more missing than just the girl from New Orleans?”

“I’m not sure yet, but I think your mother’s right. The tabby’s looking for something. Someone. Maybe she’s looking for whoever took Kellie Tandy.”

Marc reached out for me, and I let him pul me close. “That would explain why she’s two days behind whoever took Tandy,” he said. “She’s tracking him.”

“No way.” I shook my head and felt my hair rub against Marc’s shirt.

“There’s no possible way she could have tracked anyone that far.” It was incredibly difficult for one cat to track another across long distances. In the forest, it wasn’t so bad—our ears are very sharp, and the slightest sound can give away your position. However, over long distances, it’s virtually impossible. Cats can’t track with their noses like dogs can. And even if we could, we’d lose the trail the moment our prey got into his car.

“Besides, that doesn’t explain why she’s killed three toms in less than a week.”

My father clasped his hands behind his back, frowning in thought.

“No, it doesn’t, and such long-distance tracking does seem pretty far-fetched, but without more to go on, I can’t see how else Kellie Tandy could be connected to the tabby.”

“Wel , shi—!” Ethan shouted, snapping his mouth closed abruptly when he realized he’d almost cussed in front of his Alpha.

“What?” our father asked, waving off the social gaffe.

“I just realized that if Marc and Faythe had brought Painter back with them for questioning, instead of releasing him, we’d probably have known who the rogue tabby is three days ago.”

Well, hell. I could feel my cheeks begin to burn. Ethan was right.

Excuses tumbled around in my brain, and several jumped immediately into the spotlight, ready for use. But my father beat me to it.

“It’s not your fault,” he said, taking in both Marc and me with his gaze. “I told you to release him. You did the right thing.”

I nodded, thankful for his reassurance, but couldn’t help feeling like I’d made a big mistake. Another big mistake. Which only reminded me of the one I hadn’t yet disclosed to either him or Marc.

“Did Painter say anything…I don’t know…important, while you were driving him to the border?” Parker asked.

“Um, no.” Marc held me tight against his chest. “He was unconscious.”

Michael pushed his glasses—which I suspected were just to make him look smarter—farther up on his nose. “Unconscious? How did he happen to lose consciousness?”

“I…kind of knocked him out.” I shrugged sheepishly when Michael frowned. “He got vulgar, talking about chasing a piece of…tail. So I…” I swung my arm up, in imitation of my prize-winning right hook. But my fist froze in midair and my words trailed off, as what I’d been saying finally sank in.

Chasing a piece of ass. He’d said he was chasing a piece of ass.

“He meant the tabby,” I whispered, too surprised to manage any real volume. But it didn’t matter. They all heard me. “Painter was chasing the rogue tabby, and I knocked him out before he could tell us about her.”

Outside, cicadas chirruped, filling the silence as everyone but Marc stared at me in complete disbelief.

Then Ethan snorted. “Isn’t that a bitch?” He grinned, his expression one of dark amusement—as if he appreciated the irony—rather than actual anger. But I would have understood anger. I’d screwed up the entire investigation, before I even knew there was one.

“I swear on my life that I do not do these things on purpose,” I said, letting my head fal back to rest on Marc’s shoulder as his arms wrapped around me. I hated feeling like my fellow Pride members spent most of their time cleaning up my mistakes. I was better than that, and I wanted them al to know it.

“Of course you don’t,” Jace said. I lifted my head to look at him, encouraged by the understanding in his voice, and was even more relieved to find sympathy in his eyes. “You had no way of knowing all this was going on. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“She didn’t do anything right, either,” Michael mumbled, still staring at the body of his childhood friend. I wanted to snap at him but resisted the impulse. I wasn’t the real source of his anger; that much was obvious.

“Jace is right,” my father said, eyeing Michael in compassion, rather than irritation. “She couldn’t possibly have known.” Bending, he reached for the plastic hanging over the bales of hay from beneath Jamey Gardner’s body. He pulled up first one side, then the other, until Jamey was completely and respectful y covered.