Chapter 7: The Second Drawer

We landed in Sacramento at dawn, and I walked into the pack house through the front door.

Ronan came in a step behind me, with two Mesquite wolves at his back.

The staff in the front hall stopped what they were doing.

A cook set down a tray.

A clerk by the stairs let her stack of folders slide to the floor.

For three years I had come in through the kitchen entrance, because Peyton had told me the Luna's door was for ceremonies.

There had never been a ceremony.

"I'm here for my sister's things," I said, to the hall at large. "And for the finance office."

Nobody moved.

"Slade is at the regional Alpha meeting," a clerk said. "He won't be back until tonight."

"Good," I said. "I don't need him."

I went up the east stairs with Ronan's wolves behind me.

Cara's room was at the end of the second-floor hall, the smallest room in the house.

It still smelled like her, like orange peel and the strawberry shampoo she hated and used anyway.

I stood in the doorway and did not go in for a moment.

Her bed was made.

Someone had been in and straightened it, and I knew without asking who had told them to.

I filled a duffel with her sweaters and her paperbacks and the framed photo from her nightstand, the one of the two of us on the Sacramento pier.

Then I went down to the finance office.

It was the same open room with the same desks.

Peyton was at hers, in a blue blouse, with a mug of tea in one hand and the other on her mouse.

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