I nodded, then stuffed my hands in my pockets. "We can discuss it later. I know this isn't the time. I just-I should talk about it and I keep avoiding it, so now that you know, you can… I don't know. Just forget-"

"There's a damned good reason you mentioned it now."

He looked over, catching my gaze. He was right, of course. What happened to me with Travis Tesler resurrected an issue that hadn't been buried very deeply.

Clay asked who sent the letter. He wasn't asking for a name. He wouldn't recognize it. There'd been a time, back in the beginning, after he bit me and was frantically trying to make amends, that he'd asked for names. He hadn't been surprised when I wouldn't give them.

Years ago, I'd sent letters to the Children's Aid Society and warned them about the families I'd had trouble with. By then, most weren't fostering anymore. But for those that were, I was assured my concerns would be investigated, and in follow-ups, the remaining few had been removed from the list. So no other children were in danger, and that's all that had mattered to me. All that should matter.

Clay wouldn't necessarily agree. When we'd been dating, he'd gone after an old foster brother who'd been stalking me. Beat him brutally. I was there. I saw it. And I don't know what horrified me more-watching it or wishing I'd been the one delivering the blows.

That was the beginning of where things had gone wrong for us. In asking for the names of the men who'd abused me, Clay had only been grasping at straws, desperate to find a way to prove his love.

Even later, when I would talk to him about what had happened, I think he felt that something should be done. By unspoken agreement, then, we never referred to them by name, so now, when he asked which one sent the letter, I said only, "Maple Street."

He swore. Slipped his arm around my waist. Pulled me closer as we walked up the hill to the hotel.

"He's going through therapy," I said.

"Electroshock?"

I couldn't suppress a smile. "Unfortunately, no. But as part of this therapy, he's supposed to contact his victims and ask-" I choked on the word. "Ask for forgiveness."

Clay's reaction to that was predictable. And, again, it made me smile, and wish I'd told him the day the letter arrived. It was like his reaction to Mallory Hirsch's bitchy treatment of me-there was a great deal of pleasure to be found in imagining unleashing him on those who wronged me, even if I knew I'd never actually do it, that the guilt would outweigh the pleasure.

"I hope you told him where to stuff it," he said finally.

"I don't forgive him," I said.

"Hell, no, you don't. And why should you? So he can feel better? Get on with his life? And what's he done to help you get on with yours?"

I didn't answer. I couldn't. I wished I'd kept the letter so I could fly to Ontario, march up to him and…

And I don't know what. Not hurt him. Just show him that I didn't need his apology, I guess. Show him that I was okay. Better than okay. I was happy, in spite of everything he'd done to me, and no, I didn't forgive him. God help me, I would not forgive him.

"Sending you that letter was wrong," Clay said. "I don't give a fuck how bad he feels. What kind of therapist rips open the past by making him send a letter like that?"

"I'm sure it helps some victims."

"Well, not all. And it's irresponsible to pull that shit."

I nodded. And, again, I wished I'd told him earlier, because this was exactly what I wanted to hear, vindication that I had a right to be pissed off, vindication that I had a right not to want to reopen those old wounds.

Maybe a therapist would tell me this proved I wasn't healed. How I'd reacted to Tesler also proved I wasn't healed. When I said as much to Clay, though, he shook his head.

"The reason Tesler freaked you out is because of that letter. It brought all that shit to the surface, and it was just fucking bad luck that Tesler came along and tapped into it. But that's over. He's a coward and you know it now. Hopefully, you'll never have to deal with him again-not alone, anyway, but if you do, then just show him who's boss and he'll run like hell. You're a better fighter than him. Don't forget it."

I nodded, but this time, I wasn't so sure I agreed. When Clay seemed ready to pursue it, though, I gestured at the bag he was holding.

"You took the mutt's clothing?" I said. "We'll need to find a place to burn it."

"Nah. It was all generic stuff. I only wanted this." He handed me the bag. Inside was Dan's jacket, washed denim with leather trim and a shearling lining.

"Nice, but it looks a little small for you."

He rolled his eyes.

"Okay," I said. "I give up. What did you want with his jacket?"

"It's not his. It's Dennis's."

"Dennis?"

"I smelled him on it when I was checking Podrova for ID. So I took it. No mutt is being buried in Dennis's coat."

I pulled it from the bag. "This isn't Dennis's. First, I saw his coat in the cabin-a plain, Sears catalogue parka. All his clothing was department store and that-" I pointed to the jacket. "-might have come from a catalogue, but if so, it was from one of those fancy collegiate stores. It's a young man's jacket. Dennis was trying to recapture his wolf, not his youth."

"Well, it smells like Dennis. Like he wore it."

He motioned for me to sniff the inside. I did and Dennis's scent was indeed there, as if he'd pulled it on once or twice, but under the mutt's more recent smell was another, deeper one embedded in the fabric. The real owner. And when I caught a whiff of that, I swore.

A smile creased Clay's eyes. "Admitting you're wrong, darling?"

"Not about that. Something bigger. At Dennis's place, I smelled another werewolf. A family member. I presumed it was Joey, but having now smelled Joey and smelling this, I was wrong. This coat be longed to a werewolf and it belonged to a Stillwell. But not Dennis and not Joey."

It was Clay's turn to curse, taking the jacket, inhaling deeper and cursing again.

"We need to talk to Joey," I said.

I'D ALREADY NEEDED to talk to him-about this "deal" with the mutts and his lie about not encountering them. And now this: the existence, or former existence, of a Stillwell that Jeremy knew nothing about.