My second cup of tea sits untouched on the edge of Clayton's desk.

"So if the girl I helped move into her dorm wasn't Jules, then who was she?" I ask once we've both gotten a moment to gather our thoughts.

He shrugs. "Probably an actor who had no idea what kind of uproar she was about to cause."

"And who would go through with such an elaborate ruse to create a fake student only to have her go missing and why?"

Clayton writes the post office box number on a sticky note as he answers. "Considering that the whole point of it was to bring public attention to a disappearance at the university and that this type of situation looks worst for leadership—"

"Namely one Douglas Calhoun," I interject.

"Yes, Calhoun," Clayton confirms before continuing. "That means that this was all likely done to discredit Calhoun. And since the man has many enemies, the who is going to be harder to answer."

Getting up from his seat, he grabs another cookie before heading toward the door. "Are you coming?"

I bolt after him. "Where?"

Clayton hands me the sticky note. "The Internet should be able to tell you exactly where this postal box is located, but based on the zip code, it's a couple hours' drive away so you'll have plenty of time to look it up."

"What will finding the box tell us?" I ask, thinking that we should be focusing on Calhoun and not the fake girl.

Instead of going to the waiting SUV, Clayton heads toward the back of the mansion.

"If the box is legit and Juliette's family had a connection to it, then someone in the area would know them, right? If they don't, then we can one hundred percent say that she's a fake, created to fool us for one reason or another," he says, opening a door to the garage. Inside are several more vehicles including a silver sports car, which he unlocks. "Hop in."

The drive would be a perfect time for me to find out more about Clayton. I could ask him about his research or learn about his family. But like a total idiot, I do none of those things. So by the time we get to the small, rural town with the mysterious P.O. box, I'm antsy enough to knock on some doors.

"There don't seem to be too many people living here any more," Clayton says as we exit the car. There are a number of Queen Anne style cottages and brick four-squares in the area, but many of them have boarded up windows or overgrown landscapes. "How about you take the houses on this side of the street and I'll go ask around on the other side. We'll meet back here after?"

We split up, but less than twenty minutes later we're back comparing notes.

"Well, I've got nothing," I say, throwing my hands up in frustration after showing nine people pictures of Jules and getting eight 'no's' to my inquiry about whether she's ever lived here and one 'sure is purdy, but no' for some variety.

"Same," Clayton says just as dejected. "No one has heard of the Kaczmarek family and one nice old woman even told me that the last person under forty moved out of town nearly ten years ago."

"Wow. So I guess your theory's confirmed. Does that mean we can go back to Woodhurst now? I've had a long day—"

"Sure," Clayton interrupts me for a change, his tone sounding a little like he's offended by my suggestion.

I don't know what I said wrong, but now I feel bad so I try to make amends.

"But if you'd rather . . .," I trail off, not knowing what else to propose.

Opening the driver's door, he shakes his head. "No. Let's just go."

So now we're silent again, but for different reasons. But a few miles before the turnoff to the interstate, I notice Clayton checking and then re-checking the rear view mirror.

"Is everything okay?" I ask before turning in my seat to also look behind us. One of those classic gas-guzzlers that's the size of a small yacht is coming up. Fast.

"He's been following us for a while," Clayton says, downshifting and flooring the throttle. We're now going well over sixty.

"Maybe it just happens to be heading in the same direction?" I say, even though I don't have faith in coincidences any more.

We're bumped from behind and our car jerks.

"Doubt it," Clayton says, looking back as the other car begins to overtake us.

"What the hell is he doing?" For the first time, my voice is unsure as the steel beast pulls up next to us in the oncoming lane.

Instead of passing, it moves to the right and narrows the gap between the two speeding cars.

"I don't know, but hold on," Clayton says, luckily sounding more confident than me.

I brace myself against the dashboard just before he slams on the brakes and the seatbelt cuts into my shoulder when my body is thrown forward. There's also a deafening screech of tires and the nauseating smell of burning rubber at the sudden deceleration.

The car spins and for a moment, I lose all of my bearings until we're heading in the opposite direction. Clayton has turned the car around like a freaking stunt driver!

Looking back, my elation is short-lived and I'm horrified to see that the other car hasn't given up, but reversing at full speed. Not only that, it's catching up.

I look at our speedometer for reassurance, but he needle is gradually dropping. Forty-five, forty, thirty-five.

"Why are we slowing down?"

Clayton holds up a finger and listens. Now that there is less of a revv from the engine, we can hear a faint plop-plop sound every other second.

"I think we busted a tire," he says before there's another jerk. Our pursuer has bumped us from behind again.

Clayton mutters a curse under his breath before we're bumped again, this time even harder. The bad tire is also making it harder for him to keep the car under control and we veer towards the road's shoulder.

This time he lets out a deep growl and I hope he isn't planning on turning. The strength, speed, and all-around scariness of a wolf can be handy in a lot of situations, but I can't see how this could be one of them.

A third bump against our rear fender manages to not only force us back onto the shoulder, but also clip the grassy verge. Clayton immediately reacts at the wheel, but he overcorrects and we slide across the road as though it were made of ice. When a tire hits a pothole, the car begins to spin counterclockwise until it reaches the opposite side.

Everything had already seemed to be going at reduced speed, but time further slows down when our car goes airborne. Now I truly feel like a spectator instead of a participant watching as the silver two-seater rolls in the air one-hundred eighty degrees on its long axis before landing on its roof and continuing to crash, crash, crash against the hillside before coming to a stop on its wheels at the bottom.

I open my eyes, unsure of how long they’d been closed. A mere second? Or has it been longer?

The windshield is cracked and there’s smoke coming from under the hood. My ears are ringing and my vision can’t seem to focus, and for a moment, I can’t remember what just happened.

I feel like throwing up and I swallow the bitter taste that tries to bubble up. My head is throbbing and I reach up to my temple. When I look at my hand, my fingers are covered in blood.

The sight is enough to shock my memory and I recall having been forced off the road in spite of Clayton’s best efforts.

Oh, no. Clayton!

I look to my left and see him slumped over in the driver’s seat. Thankfully he’s still breathing, but resisting the urge to shake him awake, I gently nudge his shoulder.

“Clayton, wake up,” I say, suddenly very aware of the smell of gasoline and that we should probably get out of the wreck as soon as possible.

With a low moan, he sits up and opens his eyes. There’s a faraway look in his gaze, so I unclick my seatbelt and then undo his, as well.

“Come on. We have to get out of here,” I say, helping him get untangled from the belt, but getting his left arm out causes him visible pain as his face contorts into a grimace. “I’m sorry, but there’s no other way. You okay?”

He grits his teeth and nods. “Uh-huh.” It’s an obvious lie.

The passenger side door won’t budge so I climb out through the broken window. Running around to the driver’s side, I breathe a huge sigh of relief when Clayton’s door opens without a hitch. I help him out before we both collapse on a couple of boulders a safe distance away.

“How are you doing?” he asks, finally regaining his bearings. Although he’s still protectively cradling one arm, his voice is strong. Even the color is coming back into his face.

Still hopped up on adrenaline, but out of immediate danger, I have no qualms about giving him an honest answer.

“I’d be much better if some bozo didn’t just almost kill me by running us off the road,” I say, standing and throwing my hands up in emphasis. “And all that is thanks to you. Just like being blackmailed to join a pack for fear of being exposed of having murdered someone who isn’t even real. You know, Dr. Clayton Ward, my life was a lot easier before I had anything to do with you.”

“I’m sorry for all of that, Barlow. I truly am,” Clayton says, also rising to his feet and pointing around with his good hand. “All of this is just as shocking to me as it is to you. But I suppose I could have been more patient with you choosing to join us in Allegheny. I was just afraid that Black River would lure you away before you had gotten to know me . . . know us, rather.”

“You absolutely could have waited,” I say, surprised by his apology, but not wanting to let him off the hook so easily. “And you shouldn’t have used Juliette’s disappearance to make me doubt how much control I had over my wolf. Or did you really believe that I could have hurt her?”

“You’re right,” he says after a loud sigh. “I used the mystery surrounding the girl to my advantage and made you think you needed my help to protect you. But if we’re discussing regrets, don’t you think you should have told me what you saw between President Calhoun and Captain Barnett out by the lake the other night?”

I gasp and take a step backwards as though I’ve been punched in the gut. “How do you know about that?”

In spite of the pain, he gives me a weak smile. “Who do you think told the captain to show the victim’s wallet to Calhoun before throwing it in the water?”

My jaw literally drops open in shock. “You?” I whisper.

Clayton nods, but the movement makes him flinch and his fingers tighten around his arm. He’s clearly more hurt than he’s letting on.

“I’m going to make a call. It’s going to be dark soon and it’ll take a few hours for help to get here,” he says.

A few hours? That doesn’t sound right.

“You’re not going to call the police?” I ask as he pulls out his phone.

He looks up from the device. “And what would I tell them? The whole Juliette story? Or just the parts that wouldn’t make us sound like we’re insane?” he asks, rhetorically. “No, it’s better if we kept this between as few of us as we can.”

Clayton turns and steps as far away as it takes for me to not be able to make out his conversation. This secrecy, his reluctance to call the police, and his admission of having collaborated with the policewoman leading the investigation into the body found on campus don’t sit well with me.

This man is smart and he seems to be at least three steps ahead of everyone else with everything he does. He’s a master strategist orchestrating moves without his unwitting accomplices even realizing it.

And somehow I ended up being his newest pawn.