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________________________________________ Thɪs chapter is updatᴇd by novel·fire·net
The flashing red-and-blue glow of sheriff's cruisers lit the otherwise empty parking lot. Yellow tape fluttered in the night breeze, sectioning off the scene. Deputies moved in and out, their radios crackling with clipped chatter.
Chris pulled in quietly, killing the headlights before stepping out. His eyes scanned the scene with the practiced calm of a man who'd stood at too many scenes . But the moment he spotted the sheet-covered stretcher being wheeled into the coroner's van, his chest tightened.
At the far end, Edward stood alone, arms crossed, jaw tight.
Chris strode over. "Ed," he said, voice low. "What's going on?"
Edward turned, and for the first time in years, Chris noticed how much older the man looked under the streetlights. His face was set, but grief lined the corners of his eyes.
"I was supposed to meet Andrew for drinks," Edward said flatly. "He never showed. Tracked his phone here." He exhaled slowly, eyes flicking toward the stretcher. "By the time I arrived, the sheriff's department had already locked the place down."
Chris studied him, noting the way Edward's hand twitched slightly against his arm. Pain contained by discipline.
"What did you see?" Chris pressed.
Edward's voice hardened. "Not much. But I got close enough before they moved the body. Werewolf claw marks, Chris. Deep. No mistaking it."
Chris's jaw clenched, but he only gave a small nod.
"The sheriff's people," Edward continued, "think it was an animal attack. That's the story they'll believe. But…" He pulled his phone from his jacket pocket, unlocked it, and handed it over. "I talked to the security guard, convinced him to let me copy this footage before the department collected it."
Chris held the phone steady as the grainy video played. The parking lot. The empty rows. And then—a dark Camaro roaring out, fast. The hood streaked with something dark that glistened under the lamps. Blood. The driver's face was blurred in the low light, but it didn't matter. Chris knew that car.
The silence stretched between them. Chris stared at the screen a moment longer before lowering the phone. His features stayed controlled, but Edward could see the tension in his shoulders.
"I know Andrew had a bad habit of running his mouth," Edward said, bitterness creeping into his tone. "But he was a good kid. He didn't deserve this."
Chris met his eyes. There was no denying Edward's care for the boy—no denying his pain, either.
"I promise you," Chris said firmly, his voice carrying the weight of an oath, "we'll find who did this to Andrew. And they'll pay for it. But not tonight. Not with hot heads. Not with half the truth. He deserves better than that."
Edward's jaw worked as if he wanted to argue, but after a beat, he gave a reluctant nod.
Chris clapped him once on the shoulder, then looked back toward the taped-off lot. The coroner's van was pulling away, the stretcher already hidden inside.
Andrew was gone. And if the footage was to be believed, Derek Hale had Andrew's blood on his hands.
Chris kept his face still, but inside he knew the fire had already been lit.
About an hour later, Chris returned home, the fire still smoldering beneath the surface, held tight behind the familiar mask he wore so well.
The house was still and silent when he let himself in, shutting the door behind him with more care than usual. The Argents prided themselves on discipline, on composure—but grief had a way of making the walls heavier.
The kitchen light was on. Victoria sat at the table, a mug of tea in her hands. The steam curled upward in the dim glow.
"You should have gone back to sleep," Chris said quietly as he stepped in.
Her eyes lifted to meet his. "I couldn't," she replied simply. "Not after we lost one of our own tonight."
He moved to the cupboard, retrieved a second cup, and she poured without asking. He sat across from her, hands wrapped around the warm porcelain. For a time, neither of them spoke. The silence carried its own weight, punctuated only by the faint ticking of the clock on the wall.
Finally, Victoria set her mug down. Her voice was soft, but her words carried sharp edges. "Andrew was so young. He had his whole life ahead of him." She hesitated, the flicker of a mother's worry darkening her expression. "Things … they make me wonder about Allison. About her being a hunter."
Chris didn't answer. He drank, eyes fixed on the dark liquid, as though the right words might be found at the bottom.
Victoria studied him for a beat, then asked, "So what did you find?"
Chris exhaled slowly. "All the evidence points to Derek Hale."
Her gaze sharpened. "But?"
He leaned back, tired lines etched across his face. "But something feels off."
Victoria tilted her head, urging him on. "Like what?"
"There's security footage," Chris said. "Shows Derek pulling into the parking lot. Shows him leaving—fast. Blood on his hood." His brow furrowed. "But there's nothing of Andrew. Not arriving. Not walking in. Nothing. As if he just appeared dead on the pavement."
Victoria folded her arms, thoughtful. "And we don't know why Andrew was even there."
Chris nodded. "Exactly. It doesn't add up. I've got our people digging deeper. Checking angles. Timelines. Anything that can tell us what really happened."
She reached for her cup again, but her eyes never left his. "I trust your instincts, Chris. But you know as well as I do—we can't hold our people back for long. Not after something . They'll want blood."
Chris's jaw tightened. He gave a slow nod, finishing his tea in a single swallow. "I know."
The silence returned, heavier than before. Both of them sat with it, knowing the storm wasn't far away.