The Worth Series: Complete Collection

by Lyra Evans

  The carpet was old but clean and springy, the artwork on the walls simple but relaxing, with soft colours and idyllic scenes. As they walked toward the kitchen, they passed the sitting room. The couches were arranged toward each other, a small television in a corner, as though socializing was a greater priority than anything else. There were a few figurines on the mantle, surrounded by more photos. Flowers in pots stood scattered around, and one small tree sat in a large pot by the window, lending a feeling of nature and thriving to the place.

  They walked into the kitchen to find the Ryans sitting at a small wooden table, flowered teacups sitting in saucers before them. Mr. Ryan, his hair greyer than the pictures, began to look the colour of his hair. His skin was washed of warmth, his eyes empty as he stared at the centre of the table, his tea untouched. Mrs. Ryan was sobbing silently into a tissue, her shoulders heaving in uneven arcs, her face shining with the evidence of her pain.

  Oliver stood a step behind Connor, feeling worse by the moment. The worst part of his job was seeing people broken by the news he had to give, by the questions he had to ask. He did what he did for the sake of the victims, for those who couldn’t speak for themselves, and for the sake of those they left behind. He did it to give them some amount of peace, but he knew it was little compared to the loss. Justice was important, but nothing would ever bring back their son.

  “Mildred,” Connor said, taking the seat next to her and placing his arm around her without hesitation. He was so much taller than she was, so much larger than life, he seemed to be cradling a doll, but she curled into him, a small wail escaping her as she did. “I’m so sorry, Matthew.”

  Mr. Ryan nodded vaguely, his eyes finally leaving the centre of the table to find Connor. “He always loved you,” Matthew Ryan said to Connor. “Said you were the best Alpha our pack has ever seen. And you,” he said, turning suddenly to Oliver. “He said you would help bring real change. He said you were changing minds back in your Court.” He spoke fiercely and suddenly, and Oliver was rooted to the floor by his words. The fire in his eyes dwindled after a moment, washed away by tears, and he added, voice breaking, “that was our boy, our Malcolm. So full of hope, so full of faith. He thought the world was so good!”

  Connor held fast to Mildred Ryan while she and her husband sobbed, releasing her only when she reached for Matthew. Oliver was glad, at least that they could take comfort in one another. Too often the loss of a child destroyed families and marriages. Though he wondered if that was only true for Nimueh’s Court. Perhaps Werewolves were made of stronger stuff, valuing family and unity more than Witches and Wizards did. He hoped that the Ryans would make it through together.

  “I’m so very sorry for your loss,” Oliver said after a moment. “We will do everything in our power to find the person who did this to Malcolm. Would it be all right if we asked you a few questions?”

  Matthew Ryan collected himself first, grasping his wife’s hand tightly and soothing her. She lowered the sodden tissue and nodded vaguely. Charity sank down into a chair opposite her, holding her own hands helplessly.

  Oliver pulled out his coded notebook. “When was the last time you saw Malcolm?” he asked, and Mrs. Ryan twitched, on the edge of another wave of sobs. Oliver cringed at his own words, knowing what it was he was asking of this family, but having to do it nonetheless.

  “Last night,” Matthew Ryan said, “around midnight. He said he was going out for a run and then to meet someone. He wouldn’t say who or where. We didn’t worry much. He liked his privacy, and Malcolm could always take care of himself…” The thought trailed off, the unspoken reality hanging low over them. He hadn’t managed this time.

  Oliver noted the information down. “What was he wearing?”

  “Jeans, a sweater,” Matthew said. “I don’t know exactly.”

  “It was the eggplant sweater we got him for his birthday,” Mildred Ryan said through sobs. “I thought it would look nice with his eyes.” She descended into more sobs, and Matthew gathered her closer.

  Oliver noted it, watching the letters transform into other symbols before his eyes. “Did he often go running in that kind of clothing?”

  There was no answer for a moment, Matthew Ryan looking confusedly at him. Oliver blinked, unsure about his question, when Connor said, “he went running as a Wolf. Didn’t matter about his clothes.”

  Oliver mentally kicked himself before noting that down as well and nodded to Connor. He needed to start thinking more, to be more sensitive to the differences between Nimueh’s and Logan’s Courts.

  “Of course,” he said. “Did he seem to be acting strangely at all, more secretive than usual, more anxious?”

  Mildred’s sobs eased a bit, and she looked up at Oliver. “No,” she said. “Not at all. He was a bit gloomier than usual a few weeks back, when he and Charity broke up, but he was trying to move on.”

  Charity sat a little straighter, a pinkish colour tingeing her cheeks.

  “You were dating?” Oliver asked, and she nodded.

  “For four months,” she admitted, and Oliver studied her face. She seemed regretful and guilty, but Oliver couldn’t pinpoint why.

  “Why did it end?”

  Charity swallowed hard, tears streaming silently down her face again. “He told me he wasn’t ready for a real commitment. He didn’t want to be mated yet. He said we were too young, but I told him I didn’t want to wait around if he didn’t think we were going anywhere.” She caved in to the same body-wracking sobs that afflicted Mildred. “We broke up because of me. If I had just waited, maybe he would have been with me—”

  “No child,” Mildred said suddenly, fierce as her husband had been. “No. Don’t blame yourself. You were kind and sweet, and Malcolm never begrudged you your decision. The only person to blame is the cowardly vermin that killed Malcolm with a gun. No courage, no fight, no chance to prove himself.”

  Mildred reached across the table to squeeze Charity’s hand, and Oliver realized just how deep the canyon between Nimueh’s and Logan’s Courts ran. He’d never seen people cleave together so tightly in the aftermath of a murder. He’d never seen Witches and Wizards defend one another in the face of such unimaginable loss.

  “I’m sorry, I do need to ask,” Oliver began, knowing it was a difficult question every time. “Where were you all between three and five a.m.?”

  “Sleeping,” Matthew Ryan said. “Both of us, in bed here. Mildred nodded, still crying. “I woke at five-thirty when Connor came by to—to tell us…”

  Oliver nodded and turned to Charity. “I was—just getting in,” she said, her face red and tears streaming faster. “I’d been on a date with someone new—Isaac O’Leary. We went out dancing and then for drinks, and he dropped me off at home around three-thirty.” Oliver noted it, realizing her guilt was about her own perceived betrayal. She was out with another man when Malcolm was on his way to death. “I fell asleep pretty soon after. Woke up at six when I got the call about Mal…”

  Oliver only had two more questions, but he didn’t relish asking the next one. “Did Malcolm—have any enemies? Anyone who might want to hurt him?” Oliver asked, hesitating only a moment.

  “No,” Charity said immediately and without hesitation. The Ryans shook their heads too. “Everyone liked him. It was his way. He was friendly and thoughtful. Never liked to see people down or hurting.” She pulled a tissue out of her pocket and wiped her face. “He was a good man.”

  Connor caught Oliver’s eye, his eyebrows knitted together over his eyes. His jaw was tight, his posture tense with the pain of his Wolves. Oliver felt, for the first time, on the outside of Connor and his world. As though an interloper, he was the unwelcome entity in their shared sorrow.

  “Thank you so much for your help; I know this is difficult. I only have one more question,” Oliver said. “Do you happen to have Malcolm’s phone? It wasn’t on him, and it might have clues to who did this.”

  Matthew Ryan shook his head. “He had it with him,” he said. “H
e was on it when he left, sending messages to someone. You didn’t find it?” Oliver shook his head, as did Connor. Matthew Ryan looked alarmed, confused, lost. Oliver noted the missing phone in his notebook.

  “His account,” Charity said suddenly, perking up. “He had an account with this app that logs all the activity on your phone so that you can track it down if it gets stolen or lost. I know his log-in information.”

  It took only a few minutes to find Malcolm’s laptop and log in to the website that tracked his phone usage. Oliver sat at Malcolm’s desk, in his bedroom, searching through a dead man’s life. The room was untidy but not dirty, clothes abandoned on the bed and near the hamper, books scattered about along with headphones and magazines. His phone was apparently relatively sparse with information—he had a few photos of himself with Charity or his friends, and a few mindless games for wasting time. Mostly the phone was for music—which included an extensive collection—and messaging. His text messages and emails were all to the same friends and pack members Connor expected, but Oliver noticed an app that offered its own messaging. It was called Ember and served as a casual dating service. It matched users from nearby areas for dates, sex, and any number of social interactions.

  Oliver clicked it, scrolling through his interactions. It didn’t take long to find the messages from the previous night. He’d been chatting with a young woman whose screen name was HotnFlirty77. Her profile photo was poor quality, cropped out of a larger image, and showed a young woman with long blond curls and heavily made-up eyes. Oliver clicked through to her profile, but it was nearly empty. Even the email address, a requirement for the app, was blank.

  “How is that possible?” Connor asked, staring at the photo. “She doesn’t look familiar to me. I don’t think she’s in my pack.”

  Calling to mind the right spell, Oliver cast an enhanced magical search for the photo online. The network’s standard search engine suddenly called up the original photo of the woman, and Oliver sighed, his suspicions confirmed.

  “She’s not real,” Oliver said, pointing at the photo. It was from a promotional image for a ladies’ clothing chain in Nimueh’s Court. “Malcolm Ryan was catfished.”

  Chapter 6

  By the time they left the Ryans’ the sky was already darkening. Oliver had never felt so useless in his life as a police officer. They’re only lead was a woman who didn’t exist—or rather, couldn’t have been involved as she was on a shoot in Maeve’s Court at the time, Oliver checked—and every new bit of information made the case more puzzling. Being the only experienced detective involved did nothing to ease Oliver’s tension, of course. Every Wolf he came across seemed to be unusually grateful to him, believing in his abilities far more than he did at that moment. He’d gone so long without a supportive hand on his shoulder, he’d forgotten how it felt to have people believe in you.

  Captain Marks never treated him ill, of course. She was about as supportive as anyone at the NCPD got when it came to Oliver. But her stoic and unyielding nature made heart-to-hearts and pep talks about as common as footprints in Logan’s forest. Beyond her there was only Rory, and her support always came in the way of sarcastic comments and playful pranks, and even then only half the time. She spent so much time in Maeve’s Court for her job that they rarely spent time talking about the deep things, choosing instead to catch up on episodes of Cold Hearts Club and odd cooking shows.

  But here in Logan’s Court, Oliver had all of Connor’s pack behind him. He had people who thought him both worthwhile and effective. He had people who thought of his name first, before anyone else’s, when they needed help. And Oliver felt all the guiltier for it.

  The weight in his gut began to twist, forcing him to decline Charity’s offer of tea and biscuits before they left. Connor had stayed with them in the kitchen to sit in quiet grieving as other Wolves came and went, offering condolences and food. Oliver had spent the time in Malcolm’s room, going through his computer and cellphone records, picking through his possessions to try and get a sense of the victim. But there was little in the room that suggested anything other than the family had told them.

  Malcolm Ryan was a good person, on the whole. He was a loving son to his parents, spending time with them and working with his father in his mechanic shop. His off time he spent as a young Beta for Connor’s pack, taking up whatever responsibilities that incurred. He had messages from Donna, Connor’s second, on his phone every so often. Usually they involved lists of things he needed to bring to pack events or meetings. Sometimes they were instructions on dealing with minor issues between pack members, but those all related to delivering Connor’s messages, not making judgments of his own. The only other thing Malcolm Ryan seemed to do was date. Most of his time had been spent with Charity until they broke up, at which point there was a lull in social activity for a while. Then he downloaded the Ember app and began going out every couple days with new people.

  Oliver had done a cursory check into the other girls he’d gone out with on the app, but there was nothing about any of their interactions that suggested possible violence or motive. Mostly he talked about superficial things with them—his musical interests, clubs he liked to frequent, what it was he was looking for in a date. And then he would ask questions, letting the various women text him about anything and everything they wanted. He listened rather than talk himself. Except with HotnFlirty77.

  She instigated the conversation, asking him whether or not he liked to party. They exchanged some details, but she remained the more mysterious of the two, answering in short sentences and vague replies, always ending her text with another question for him. He’d told her about his parents, about working with his dad. He’d mentioned Charity and how he wasn’t ready for commitment yet. He’d also talked about Connor and how glad he was to be made Beta in his pack, about how much he respected Connor.

  As he sat in the car with Connor, driving he didn’t know where, Oliver considered all he learned from the texts. Trees and houses whipped by him, invisible to Oliver’s distracted mind, and Connor stayed silent. He seemed different than he had been on the way to the Ryans. Heavier, slower, as though he dragged something behind him.

  “Did—did you know him well?” Oliver asked after a moment, unable to keep up the silence between them. Connor jerked slightly, caught off-guard by the sudden speech.

  He glanced at Oliver. “Not nearly as well as I should have,” he said. “He was a good man, a good Wolf. I met him a few times at pack meetings, and at his naming as Beta, obviously. But he hasn’t—wasn’t Beta for long. Only a few months, really. And I’ve been rather—distracted—lately, in my Alpha duties.”

  Oliver flushed, though there was no bitterness in Connor’s voice. No reprimand. At least not directed at Oliver. Instead the regret Oliver heard seemed directed inward, as though Connor had failed Malcolm Ryan in not knowing him better, in not paying as close attention as he should have.

  Fingers tentative, Oliver reached out to place his hand on Connor’s, squeezing gently. Connor held him there a moment, his grip tightening on Oliver’s fingers as though making sure they were real, then he let go abruptly and cleared his throat.

  “So what did you find in your search of his room?” Connor asked, and Oliver let him change the subject. Connor and Oliver had met on a murder case, but the victim last time was not close to Connor, not someone he would spend much time mourning. Now, with the death so much closer to his heart, Connor was actually suffering, and Oliver hated it. He wanted to do anything—everything—to wipe away the pain in Connor’s eyes. For now that meant letting him talk about the case instead of his feelings.

  “Not much more than before,” Oliver admitted, wishing he had more to offer Connor. “The HotnFlirty77 was definitely a catfish, though. Malcolm Ryan was targeted; that much is clear from the messages. All questions for Ryan, all probing into him without giving much in return… I just can’t quite figure out why he was targeted yet.” Oliver sighed, thinking over everything he’d learned ab
out Ryan. Statistically, he wasn’t in the age range for people prone to be victims of violent crimes. In all ways, he was a low-risk victim—middle class, well-adjusted, well-liked, generally happy. He didn’t engage in any risky behaviours beyond the dates he made through the Ember app, and even that was relatively low-risk. At least, it should have been. The missing information on HotnFlirty77’s profile nagged at Oliver. “All I know for certain at the moment is that this killer is criminally sophisticated.”

  Connor cast him a questioning look. “So we’re looking for someone who’s killed before?”

  Oliver shook his head. “Not necessarily. That’s one possibility, but there are other ways of learning forensic countermeasures and putting together a ruse. Anyone with a background in law enforcement or the military would have the knowledge and skills necessary. Anyone who’s spent time in prison, even for non-violent crimes, though that’s unlikely. It could even be someone who simply reads a lot.” Oliver laughed humourlessly, picking at a spot on his jeans. “There are all kinds of books on this stuff. Not to mention endless resources online.”

  Connor turned onto the main road and sped up. Oliver fought the urge to grip the sides of his seat. He’d grown used to Connor’s mad driving. “So that doesn’t really narrow it down much at all.”

  Oliver pressed himself back into the seat. “Yes and no,” he said. “We know that this person has to be either technologically savvy enough to catfish someone without leaving any tracks, or else magically savvy enough to make those tracks disappear. I’m leaning toward magically savvy, as even the best hackers leave traces behind. And the lack of magical signature and sense evidence at the crime scene points toward magical involvement as well.”