Bo
Winslow and my mom sit at the kitchen table, my mom crying, Winslow covering her hand with his and promising everything will be all right.
I leave them to it and head down the hall to my room, where I flop face down on my bed.
All I feel is emptiness.
I should be happy. I accomplished the goal I set out to complete—find Winslow. Get him home to say goodbye to our mom. But there’s zero satisfaction.
For one thing, goodbye is pretty irrelevant when Winslow is living two and a half hours away in Tucson. He may be hiding from the law, but he’s not in a cave in Utah or out in New Mexico, off the grid, where some shifters go to disappear. He’s in the next city over. With a job and a pack to take care of him.
But none of this is about Winslow.
It’s about what went down with Sloane.
Tha
