The lost mate
Chapter 44: More complexity

Chapter 44: More complexity

"Mr. Monroe," she greeted, trying to keep her voice steady. "Can I get you something? Coffee?"

Fred waved a hand dismissively. "No, thank you. I’m more interested in a few answers than a cup of coffee."

Heather nodded, her stomach tightening. She led him to one of the tables near the window, her mind racing as she tried to anticipate his questions. Fred took a seat, and she followed, sitting across from him.

"Last time we spoke, you mentioned that you hadn’t seen Ronald in five years, since your divorce," Fred began, his tone conversational, but Heather could sense the sharp edge beneath it.

"That’s right," she replied, folding her hands in her lap to keep them from trembling. "We went our separate ways after the divorce. I haven’t seen or heard from him since."

Fred nodded slowly, as if processing her words. "That’s a long time to go without any contact. Not even a phone call? A birthday card ?"

"No," Heather said firmly. "Nothing."

Fred’s gaze intensified, and Heather felt like he was peeling back layers, searching for something hidden beneath her calm exterior. "What about Emily? Your daughter. She never tried to contact her father. Not once in five years?"

Heather’s heart skipped a beat, but she kept her expression neutral. "No, she didn’t."

Fred leant in slightly, his eyes narrowing. "That’s unusual, don’t you think? A girl doesn’t try to contact her own father for five years? Not even to see how he’s doing?"

Heather’s grip on her hands tightened. "Ronald wasn’t exactly father of the year, Mr. Monroe. He wasn’t very active in Emily’s life even before the divorce. She made her peace with it and moved on. We both did."

Fred watched her for a moment longer, then leant back, his gaze never leaving hers. "Or maybe," he said slowly, "she didn’t try to contact him because she knew he wasn’t alive anymore."

The words hung in the air like a bomb, and Heather felt her heart lurch in her chest. She stared at Fred, struggling to keep her composure. "What are you implying?" she asked, her voice tinged with anger.

Fred’s lips curled into a smile, but it was anything but friendly. "I’m just joking, Ms. Mills. No need to get worked up."

Heather’s anger flared, but beneath it was a rising tide of fear. She forced herself to smile, though it felt like her face might crack. "That’s not a very funny joke, Mr. Monroe."

Fred chuckled, but there was no humour in it. "No, I suppose it’s not." He stood up, smoothing down his jacket.

He asked many more routine questions and a few prying ones. Heather’s unease grew as she tried to maintain her composure. She couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something more sinister behind Fred’s words and demeanour.

"Thank you for your time, Mrs. Kray. I’ll be in touch if I have any more questions."

Heather stood as well, her legs feeling like they might give out beneath her. "Of course. I’ll be here."

Fred gave her a nod, then turned and walked out, leaving Heather alone in the café. The moment the door closed behind him, she sank back into her chair, her hands shaking uncontrollably.

He knew. Or at least, he suspected. Heather had been careful. Fred Monroe was no fool he was circling closer and closer, and she didn’t know how much longer she could keep him at bay.

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Fred Monroe didn’t leave, as he had told Heather he would. Instead, he slipped into the shadows, blending seamlessly with the evening twilight. He watched the café for a long moment, his sharp eyes catching every flicker of movement inside. The tension in Heather’s face, the tremor in her hands as she had tried to keep her composure—it was all too familiar to him. She was hiding something, and he intended to find out exactly what it was.

Fred had always loved his job. Being a detective allowed him to indulge in his natural curiosity and his need to uncover the truth, but more importantly, it let him keep a finger on the pulse of both human and werewolf realms. Pack politics disgusted him—the constant power plays, the backstabbing. He had no use for it. But blending in with humans, playing by their rules—that was something he excelled at.

Heather was nervous, and that alone told Fred he was on the right track. The lies she had tried to weave earlier only made him more certain. She knew something about Ronald Kray’s death. Maybe she had seen something, or maybe she had a hand in it. Either way, he could smell the fear radiating off her like a stench. It was a scent he was all too familiar with—fear mixed with guilt. She was involved, and Fred had no intention of letting her slip through his fingers.

He watched as the lights in the café flickered off, and Heather locked up for the night. She walked with stiffness in her shoulders, her head turning nervously as if expecting someone to jump out of the shadows.

He positioned himself across the street, concealed by the thick foliage of an overgrown garden. From here, he had a clear view of the front door and the side window. As the minutes ticked by, Fred’s patience was rewarded. He saw two figures approaching the house—a young woman and a small child. The woman was holding the boy’s hand, leading him towards Heather’s front door. Fred’s sharp eyes narrowed as he took in the woman’s face. There was something familiar about her, something that tugged at the edges of his memory.

Then it hit him. Annie Grant. The missing wolf, who had been declared rogue five years ago.

Fred frowned, his mind racing. Annie had vanished without a trace, leaving behind a trail of speculation and rumours. Some said she had gone rogue, others that she had been killed. But here she was, alive and well, with a child no less. What was she doing with Heather? And who was the child?

Before Fred could react, a strong hand clamped down on his shoulder, yanking him back with surprising force. He was spun around, and he found himself face-to-face with another wolf—a tall, imposing figure with a fierce look in his eyes.

"What are you doing here?" the wolf demanded, his voice a low growl.