As for a werewolf, I hoped it was anything but that. An animal attack the sheriff could handle. A vampire attack, I got it under control, but a werewolf meant involving the brothers. That might be a recipe for disaster. After seeing the sheriff’s reservations about the de Sotos, unease started to sink like concrete into my mind.
The ride over to Homer Jones’s farm was swift. The sheriff flipped on the siren, and we rode like a mother. The tall pines whizzed by so quickly, it made my head swim.
“You said the Jones live down the road. Just how far is that?” I asked, half shouting over the siren.
“About ten miles.”
“So, what kind of farmer is Homer?”
“I think that should be past tense.”
“Sorry,” I flushed. I should be more mindful. “Did you know Homer well?”
“Yup. He’d been my fishin’
