I wrote Henry—40s. Amanda was looking at me, a little impatient. “You said you guys weren’t—aren’t,” I corrected hastily, “really friendly, but you must know how she spends her time. She’s here, she’s at work. What else does she do?”

Amanda leaned back in the armchair, her eyes going distant as she considered the question. “Well, she likes to knit. She has a knitting group at the library on Thursday nights. She goes to San Diego once a month or so to visit her family—her sister just had a baby.” Her hands unconsciously clasped and unclasped in her lap. “She volunteers at the Humane Society, walking dogs, and she was active in a couple of animal rights groups, although I’m not sure she’s still doing that.”

Walking shelter dogs to werewolves was kind of a big stretch, but my ears perked up anyway. “Which groups?”

“Uh, let’s see. It’s P-A-W . . .” Amanda stared at the ceiling, squinting to remember. Then she met my eyes in sudden triumph. “Protect America’s Wolves, that was it.”

This time I did wince. Leah Rhodes had been mauled to death by a werewolf. Irony-wise, that was pretty brutal. But it couldn’t be a coincidence, could it? I wrote down the name.

I talked to Amanda for a bit longer, but all I really learned was that Leah had liked The Bachelor and had recently developed a case of baby fever, after the birth of her new nephew. “She’s been talking about kids lately,” Amanda added, shaking her head in amazement, like having kids was some weird thing they only did in Japan. “I mean, Henry just doesn’t seem like the dad type to me”—she wrinkled her nose a little—“and I can’t picture Leah as the ‘hear me roar’ do-it-yourself type.”

I felt another stab of sadness as I pocketed my notebook and thanked Amanda for her time. Leah Rhodes was never going to have a baby. She was never going to have a conversation with her nephew, either.

You didn’t kill her, I reminded myself. Go find the fucker who did.

Back in the van, I called Jesse and left him a voicemail describing my interview with Amanda Lewis. Then I headed toward the South Bay to talk to Kathryn Wong’s boyfriend. I was getting the hang of driving with just my left foot, but my injured knee ached even when thrown over the passenger seat, a powerful, insistent wave of pain that was always cresting. It only seemed to recede when I downed one of the Vicodin that Dr. Noring had given me. I was doing my damnedest not to take them, though. Not because I was trying to be a hero, but because the pills made me feel sluggish, like I’d just had an intense workout and two glasses of wine.

If Leah and Amanda’s apartment had come across as the typical LA early professional habitat, then Kathryn Wong’s place screamed “South Bay Money.” It was a condo one block away from Manhattan Beach, with a spacious emerald lawn that pretty much guaranteed the grass was never greener anywhere else. The air smelled of saltwater and sunshine, and there was careful, minimalist landscaping lining the sidewalks and side of the building. The lobby had been decorated just as carefully, with ornate pots of fresh flowers on glass-tipped end tables in each hallway. However the nova wolf was choosing his victims, it definitely wasn’t for their socioeconomic similarities.

I hadn’t wanted to make the trip south unless I knew that Kathryn Wong’s boyfriend would be there, so I’d called ahead with my victim support story and David Mailt had agreed to see me. After he’d buzzed me through the entryway, I limped toward a bronze-door elevator and rode up to the fifth floor, careful not to get fingerprint smears on the pretty interior paneling.

Mailt opened the door of 5E a heartbeat after my knock.

“Did you find her?” Mailt demanded immediately, before the door had swung all the way open. I felt an instant twinge of disappointment when I felt him in my radius—he was human. It would have been so much easier if he’d just been the nova wolf. I tried to adopt Jesse’s professional cop voice. “I’m sorry, sir. We have no new information on Kathryn.” Liar.

Mailt sagged against the door frame. He was a skinny white guy in his mid twenties, with narrow square-framed glasses and a look that could be best described as “student filmmaker.” “You’d better come in anyway, I guess,” he said, defeated, and turned around without another word, trudging back into the condo. I followed.

The interior would have been gorgeous under other circumstances. It was airy and filled with light, all cream-colored walls and light wood-paneled floors. Decorative accents of bright fuchsia, deep violet blue, and emerald green popped out against beige or wood furniture. There were two distinctive work stations in the large living room, each covered with electronic equipment. Mailt pointed me toward a nearby Pottery Barn sofa that would never deign to be dented by a human ass. I perched on its edge just in case I was inadvertently dirty.

“What can you tell me?” Mailt asked wearily, tugging at his tousled black hair. “Or do you need something from me? Pictures of Kate, or you need to get her fingerprints or whatever?”

“No, no,” I said, retrieving the pad and smoothing down the blazer. “I’m not in charge of evidence collection. Mostly, I’d just like to check in on how you’re doing, and see if you can tell me a little bit more about who Kate”—don’t say was, don’t say was—“is.”

Mailt stared at me, and now I could see the bleariness in his eyes from lack of sleep. “How will that help you find her?” he asked bluntly.