My eyes had Shifted. I was sure of it, though I couldn’t tell any difference in my face without a mirror to stare into.

Though several of our oldest legends hinted at the possibility, there were no other partial Shifts on record, and as far as I knew, I was the only werecat to ever experience one. I’d done it twice before, both during times of extreme stress, yet in spite of several concentrated efforts since that last time, I’d been unable to repeat the feat.

Because of that, the Territorial Council had refused to believe my partial Shift was anything more than the delusion of a desperate tabby in a desperate situation, even with both Abby and Marc vouching for me.

If I go back in now, my father will see, and they’ll all have to believe me.

But then I’d have to explain the emotional stress that had triggered the partial Shift, and as badly as I wanted to prove I could do it, I wanted to keep my secret even more. At least until I could tell Marc about Andrew in private. That was the least he deserved.

Gritting my teeth against the pain, I reversed the partial Shift. As soon as my vision was back to normal, I jogged across the yard to the guesthouse and through the door. Parker waved to me from the living-room computer as I headed straight for the kitchen. Then, six-pack of chilled Cokes in hand, I crossed the room again and onto the porch, just in time to hear the screen door to the main house squeal open.

I looked up as Marc stepped onto the back porch. “Faythe?” he called, the concern in his tone contrasting sharply with the bitter anger Andrew’s voice had held. “Where’d you go?”

I held up the sodas, trying desperately to regulate my pulse before he heard it racing. “Right here. I’m coming.” I took a deep breath, then jogged down the steps and across the soft green grass.

“Is something wrong? You smell…anxious.”

“Nope. Just thirsty. What’s up?” I asked as I crossed the yard toward him before he could question me further.

“Michael found a pattern with the strippers.” I knew from the grim look on his face as I climbed the steps that I wasn’t going to like whatever my brother had found.

We entered the office just in time to hear Ethan tell my father that he and Jace hadn’t been able to find my mother. “…but she can’t have gone far. Her car’s stil out front.”

“She’s in the woods,” I said, settling onto the arm of the leather couch as I pulled a soda from the bunch and tossed it to him.

My father nodded, his expression worried but not surprised. He’d known about her solitary treks in the forest. I should have guessed.

“She’ll be back when she’s ready,” he said, clearly dismissing the subject.

“Faythe, is everything okay?”

“Fine.” I popped the top on my own can and downed a quarter of it in one swal ow, to keep from having to answer any more questions. For the moment, anyway.

“Good. Michael, repeat what you said about the missing girls, for those who missed it.”

“I didn’t find any pattern among their personal lives.” Michael pushed back from the desk and stood, pulling several sheets from the printer tray as he passed it on his way to our Alpha’s side. “They range in age from twenty-one to thirty-three. All of them are single except Melissa Vassey, who’s married with one child. There’s a record of one domestic disturbance at her address, but at this point, I’m thinking that has nothing to do with her disappearance.

“Their educational backgrounds run the gamut, too. One college grad, one still studying, and two with only high school diplomas. As far as I can tell, they’ve never met one another. So I was at a complete loss for things in common until I did a search for their pictures.”

Michael met my gaze, and my throat tried to close when I saw the dark dread in his eyes, completely unfiltered by his spectacle lenses. He held up the first picture—a black-and-white pixilated image printed on twenty-pound paper— and I frowned, squinting to see it better. I shook my head and held my hand out for the page. Michael handed the first one to me, and another to Marc.

The image was poor quality, but more than adequate to make my brother’s point. Melissa Vassey—based on the caption—had long dark hair, just like mine. As did Amber Cleary, whose picture Marc held.

“You can’t tell from these, but they both have green eyes. And so does Pam Gilbert,” Michael said, holding up one of the two remaining pages.

“Wow,” Jace whispered, staring at me openly. “They look like you.”

Not quite. Two of the three women in question were quite a bit better endowed than I was—ridiculously so, in Melissa Vassey’s case—and no two of us had the same nose. But I knew what he meant. We al had straight, dark hair and green eyes. Not the most common combination of features.

He’s making a statement, I thought, stunned to the point of speechlessness. Unable to tear my eyes from Melissa Vassey’s face, I slid down from the arm of the couch onto one of the cushions. Though I’ll be damned if I know what he’s trying to say.

The Andrew I’d known could never have taken those strippers. But then, he could never have made those phone cal s, either. He’s lost it, I thought, shaking my head before I realized what I was doing.

Scratch-fever has completely fried his brain. Why else would he take Amber, and Kellie, and…

Wait. My head popped up and I frowned at Michael. “Kel ie Tandy doesn’t fit the pattern. She’s blond.”