The door whispered open under the press of her palm, no persuasion was needed. Almost like it was welcoming – no, daring – her to come inside its murky, unlit depths. Meriwa stared at her reflection for a moment, hand outstretched. It stared back at her in the clear, clean pane of glass fitted in the center of the door’s upper panel.
Finger-print shaped bruises stood out starkly against the pale skin of her neck.
For the first time, standing in the shadow of that doorway, her heart began to beat staccato in her chest. Which was ridiculous. She knew that Jackson wasn’t here, she’d seen him back at the pack house.
Surrounded by his doe-eyed admirers.
And she couldn’t hear anyone else moving about inside the house, nor smell anything actively. None of the lights were on inside, across
