Scratch the Surface (Wolf Within) Read Online Free PDF Page A

that, Constance. Don’t even think such sacrilege, please .
    I did suggest it about once a week because I secretly laughed my ass off at how frothed at the mouth the man would get. Like clockwork. Every single time.
    He was waiting for me by the vending machines outside the ladies’ room. The day after shifting was hell on the bladder. We drank tons of water before we shifted because if we didn’t, the muscle cramps the next day were severe.
    Instead of walking to the car, I went in the other direction, toward a small stand of maple trees and what, in spring and summer, would be a flower bed. Right now it was a sullen brown pile of half-frozen mud.
    Murphy fell into step with me and we walked together without speaking. I wanted to hold his hand because I wanted the contact and the comfort but I was too fragile. Murphy didn’t like to be touched first. When I forgot and did reach out to him, he invariably froze for a second before relaxing. He wouldn’t take his hand away from mine, but he would freeze at first and I knew I’d take it way too personally today so I didn’t risk it.
    Instead I kept as close as I could get to him without touching him. Our coat sleeves brushed, but our hands never met.
    We avoided the grubby snow bank by common consent. The bottom edges of it were liberally stained with dog piss. If I concentrated I could smell it. If I really focused I could tell which stains belonged to different dogs and which were made by repeat offenders. I had some dubious talents as Pack and that was one of them.
    The whole damn snow bank depressed me, just like the whole damn thing with Grandfather Tobias and our trip to Connecticut.
    “This sucks,” I announced, apropos of nothing.
    “At least you have the vindication, the satisfaction, of knowing for sure,” he remarked. He’d carefully and considerately avoided talking about the situation, allowing me to go first. The entire hour and a half we’d been in the car, he’d wanted to talk about this but he wouldn’t bring it up unless I did. He’d learned over our road trip that silence drew me out better than direct confrontation.
    “You know the grandfather in your pack rigged Sorcha’s accident too,” I said in a low voice.
    He shrugged and the wind blew his straight blondish-brown hair around. He’d cut his hair very short since Houston, but there was still enough for the winter wind to play with.
    “He hasn’t confessed yet.”
    “Has he been questioned?”
    Murphy looked at me from the corner of his dark eyes. He was hunched against the biting wind and had his hands shoved deep in his coat pockets. His expression was a baffled mix of despair and rage.
    “He’s disappeared. Nobody knows where he is and nobody can find him.”
    I chewed on that for a moment, wondering how long he’d known this fact and hadn’t told me.
    “Since when?”
    “Almost right after the incident in Houston.” His mouth turned up wryly. He was referring to his near-fatal overdose.
    “Someone gave him the heads up?” A cold sliver of disquiet slid down my spine then back up again as the implications hit me.
    “Looks like it.” We stopped where the sidewalk ended, facing each other. The ground beneath the maple trees looked muddy. I had on boots—black winter boots with sheepskin lining. I’d bought them on sale last spring and this was my first chance to wear them. They would have been okay in the mud, but Murphy didn’t seem inclined to wander off the path. He had a pair of dark brown Timberland boots. They were waterproof but, ten to one, he didn’t know that. He hadn’t bought them—I had.
    He saw me examine them critically and shook his head.
    “Don’t even think about it. I like these boots and if they go missing I’m going to hunt them down.”
    “You’ve been wearing them for two weeks, Murphy.”
    “And I’ll be wearing them for two weeks more and two weeks after that probably. I like them.”
    “At least wear one of your other pairs once in a