“And killing humans is part of a vampire’s nature?”

“Well, yeah. At least some of them. So in theory, I think a boundary witch could get a vampire to kill a human.”

“Even someone they cared about?”

Lex blew out a breath. “Yeah, probably. If the witch was strong enough.”

“Is it something you could do?”

There was a pause. When she replied her voice was stiff. “Are you accusing me of something, Cruz?”

“No, no,” he hurried to say. “But there’s a vampire here who claims she was forced to kill a bunch of women. She says she didn’t want to, she actually liked these girls, but she was sort of . . . compelled to do it. Is that possible?”

“Hmm.” Jesse gave her a moment to think it over, idly reaching so he could scratch Shadow beneath her collar. The bargest licked his hand appreciatively. “Obviously I’ve never done that,” Lex said at last. “But yeah, I think I could. I’m stronger than most, though.”

“Okay. Thanks, Lex.”

“Wait! If there’s a rogue boundary witch running around LA, I should probably know about it. Can you keep me updated?”

He promised to call her back when he knew more, and hung up the phone feeling a familiar rush of internal satisfaction. He’d fit a piece into the puzzle. He could now explain to Scarlett and Molly how it was possible that Molly had been forced.

Then his elation faded. A rogue boundary witch running around LA. That couldn’t be good. But what would she have against Molly?

Chapter 10

As expected, the emergency room trip took frickin’ forever.

The paramedics got the bleeding under control, thanks to Jesse’s tourniquet, and the ER doc gave me a local and some stitches. He offered me a prescription for oxycodone, but I declined. I needed to be sharp when I got out of there. The whole time he was working on me the nurses kept asking me who they could call, but I just shook my head, claiming I didn’t have any phone numbers memorized and I would be fine. Luckily, we weren’t at the hospital where my brother worked. If I’d bumped into him, I never would have gotten out of there.

The moment after the last stitch went in, two uniformed police officers shouldered their way past the doctor to ask me questions. I kept it very simple: I had stopped by to check on my friend, who was having a hard time since his divorce. He wasn’t home, but while I was walking back to my van someone rolled down a window and shot me. I told the police I didn’t have any enemies and that it was probably just a random thing.

Under other circumstances, they might have let it go at that, but they were suspicious about the tourniquet on my arm. I considered saying that I’d done it myself, but realized that whichever neighbor had called the police may have seen Jesse with me. So I said it was some Good Samaritan out with his dog, and I couldn’t remember what he looked like.

The hardest part of the conversation was maintaining the right amount of shock and fear: I wanted to look as upset as a victim of random gun violence should, but not so upset that I seemed like I was overdoing it. I also wanted the cops to drop the whole investigation, so I had to imply that it was probably just random kids shooting guns—without seeming like I was implying it. Trying to walk that fine line after blood loss proved to be exhausting, and in the end I didn’t need to work very hard to look shocked or confused.

The cops still insisted on going through a bunch of background on me: my job, my boyfriend, my regular activities. They were clearly hoping I’d reveal secret connections to the mob or a gang, but the joke was on them. My cover story was airtight. Dashiell had made sure of that. On paper, I was a freelance housecleaner who lived with her bartender boyfriend in San Marino. I had a perfect tax history, thanks to Hayne’s CPA brother, plus health insurance, good credit, and my own vehicle. Anyone who dug into my records would get the image of a twenty-something with all her shit together.

That was a little hilarious to me, all things considered, but it worked. After more than two hours of me repeating the same story consistently, the police finally gave up. I’d like to think that I wore them down with my personality.

When Jesse finally walked in, I was in the middle of bartering with a nurse named Rochelle, who wanted me to sign a form absolving the hospital of responsibility when I walked out. “I’ll sign the AMA,” I insisted, “as soon as you give me some scrubs to wear out of here.”

“Nuh-uh. Those are hospital property,” she countered.

“But the people at the hospital are the ones who shredded my other clothes!”

“Here,” Jesse interrupted, tossing me a plastic bag with a logo I didn’t recognize. “I got you these while I was waiting.”

“Yes!” I did a fist pump with my uninjured arm. “How’s my dog?”

“She’s fine.”

Rochelle “hmph’ed” and turned to Jesse, shaking a finger in my general direction. “She still needs to sign the paperwork before she walks out of here!”

“Ma’am,” he said, busting out his thousand-watt smile, “I’m sure Scarlett would be happy to do that right away. If you can go get the papers, I promise I won’t let her leave without signing.”

Even when he’s scruffy and bedraggled, few females can resist Jesse’s powers of hotness. I almost felt sorry for Rochelle. “All right then,” she mumbled. “Be right back.” She blushed her way out of the room.

I made a face at her back and reached for the bag. “Where did you find clothes at this hour?”

He shrugged. “My mom knows the woman who owns one of those shops on Melrose. They’re open till eleven, anyway, so she didn’t mind hanging out a little longer.”

I dumped the shopping bag out on my lap. Inside were a pair of black ponte pants, a simple blue T-shirt, and a sports bra. At the bottom of the pile there was also an olive-green canvas jacket with pockets. Lots of pockets. It looked a lot like a jacket I used to own years ago, one of my all-time favorite clothing items. I’d had to burn it after a werewolf fight. “Oooh, Jesse!”

“I wasn’t sure about your exact size, so I went for mediums.”

I touched the material. It looked like leather, but was actually waxed cotton, which made it waterproof. If—okay, when—I got blood on it, I could just hose it off. “It’s awesome.” I flipped over the price tag and dropped the jacket like it had bitten me. “Ack! Okay, I can’t afford this, but I’ll pay you back for the shirt and pants.” Regretfully, I began rolling the jacket back into the bag.

Jesse put a hand on mine, then lifted it away quickly. “Keep it. Consider them belated birthday presents.”

I raised my eyes to meet his. “Jesse . . .”

“Scarlett,” he said back, mimicking me. “Trust me, I can afford it.”

Oh. Right. The book. “Thank you!” I said, resisting the strong urge to hug the jacket.

“I almost forgot.” He dug in the pocket of his leather jacket and handed me a much smaller bag with a Target logo. “New phone.”

“Nice!”

I dumped it out too. A pretty basic model, but it would have everything I needed. The packaging was open—Jesse had been charging it in the car. I could get Abigail Hayne to transfer all my information over to the new phone. It wasn’t the first time—I was hard on what little technology I bothered to use.

“How’s your arm?” Jesse asked.

“Sore, but I can move it.”

“Do you want me to get Rochelle to help you get dressed?”

“You mean the president of my fan club? No thank you.” I twirled my finger in the air, and Jesse took the cue to turn around. I pulled on the pants first, which made my arm ache a little but was otherwise fine.

“I think I figured out how the bad guy—or bad guys—made Molly kill her friends,” he said, facing the wall.

“How?” I dropped the hospital gown—they’d let me keep my underwear, thank goodness—and stuck the sports bra over my head.

“A boundary witch could have pressed her.”

Oh my God, I was a moron. I jerked the sports bra down too quickly, letting out an involuntary whimper as the material scraped against my stitches.