“That’s a gorgeous pendant,” she said, waving a hand at the doc’s chest.

Mackenzie started and glanced down at the item as though she’d forgotten it was there. “Thanks.”

She peered closer. “Is that a… pentagram?”

“Yes, it is.” But the doc didn’t offer anything further.

Tough. Cops liked answers. “Cool. Are you Wiccan?”

“No.” A hint of annoyance crept into the doc’s tone, and her words became clipped as she tucked the disk under her blouse again. “The necklace was a gift.”

Subject closed, at least for now. But Rowan sensed a story there and sooner or later she’d ferret out the mystery. Investigating, prying answers from people who didn’t want to give them, was in her blood. For the time being, she let it go.

She had bigger fish to fry.

Mackenzie led her through a maze of corridors, and Rowan made sure to catalog every turn in her brain. The information would come in handy whether she stayed or had to get the fuck out of here fast.

Finally the doc halted in front of a closed door and nodded. “This is Nick’s office. Don’t be intimidated—he’s not as mean as he looks.”

“That’s okay, because I’m meaner than I look.” She wasn’t kidding, but Mackenzie smiled anyway, giving Rowan’s arm a squeeze.

“I’ll check on you later.”

“Thanks.” Rowan watched the woman start back the way they’d come, then turned her attention to the door. Heaving a fortifying breath, she gave three sharp raps and waited until she heard the man’s deep voice call out for her to come in before turning the knob and stepping inside.

The interior of Westfall’s office was much the same as her room—comfortable but nothing too fancy. A big desk equipped with a laptop and a cordless phone fit the space nicely, leaving room for a couple of stuffed chairs across from it. But the man himself quickly captured her attention as he rose and offered her his hand, his expression unreadable.

“Miss Chase.”

“Rowan, please.”

“Nick.” They shook hands and then he sat, gesturing for her to do the same.

“Who told you I was coming here?” she asked, careful not to sound defensive right off the bat. It wouldn’t do to piss off the man who might have the answers she needed.

“No one.” He held her gaze, his deep blue eyes seeming to look right into her soul.

She wondered what he saw there. “Then when I arrived, how did you know my name?”

The handsome dark-haired man appeared to consider his reply carefully before he finally spoke. “I’m a PreCog.”

“Come again?”

“I’m a PreCog. I sometimes see events before they happen.”

Rowan stared at him, wondering which one of them was nuts. Maybe Luis Garcia really had shot her and she was lying in some hospital in a coma, dreaming all of this.

She cleared her throat. “On top of being a wolf-man? Right. Sure you are. Listen, it doesn’t make two shits to me who ratted me out or what delusions of grandeur you’re suffering from. I just came here to—”

“Find out what happened to Micah,” he interrupted softly.

That rattled her for a couple of seconds, but she shook it off. “Not impressed. I’m sure the person who told you I was coming also told you why.” Leaning forward, she felt the slow boil of anger begin on hearing this stranger speak her brother’s name in such a familiar way. Her fingers dug into the arms of her chair. “So let’s just cut all the dancing around the subject. If Micah’s alive, tell me where he is and why in God’s name I was told he was dead. If he is dead, help me get his body home.”

Those last words emerged from her lips as though she was being strangled, stopping short of uttering the inane phrase about needing closure. There would never be closure if Micah truly was gone, the bleeding hole in her heart never filled.

“It’s not that simple.”

Months of alternating between grief and frustration with getting the runaround had frazzled her temper, and it snapped. “What the hell do you mean? He’s either dead or alive!” she shouted. “Which one is it?”

“I don’t know!”

His thundering tone echoed in the enclosed space, leaving a stunned silence in its wake. She blinked at Nick’s miserable expression, the slump of his big shoulders. “He’s missing?”

“Off the record, yes.”

“That Navy guy, General Jarrod Grant, said… The government lied to me,” she whispered. “They said Micah was killed during training maneuvers and that his body couldn’t be recovered. I buried an empty fucking box while that bastard Grant handed me an American flag and told me how sorry he was. And all the time I was grieving, my brother was out there somewhere, possibly alive, waiting to be rescued. Maybe still is.”

The horrible reality blew her mind. The lack of her brother’s body had disturbed her all along, and deep down she’d thought—prayed—that the report of his “death” had been a mistake. But to find out the whole thing was an outright lie? Rage churned, too big for her skin, threatening to tear her apart.

“For what it’s worth, I am sorry,” he said sincerely. “I would have preferred to tell you the truth, but I was overruled.”

“By whom? General Grant?”

“Yes.”

She wanted her gun back. Then she’d shoot someone. All she needed was the correct target.

“What is the truth? Was my brother really in the SEALs when he disappeared?”

“No. By then he was working here, as a member of the Alpha Pack team.”

“But in the beginning, he was with the Navy, right?” That’s what he’d told her, all those years. Now she wondered how well she’d known her brother.

“Yes, he was, just like many of my men before this compound opened about five years ago. There was a different team leader then, and I replaced him a little over six months ago. After he, Micah, and several other Pack members were allegedly killed.” His gaze bored into her.

She studied him for a minute, thinking. “The general. Would he be any relation to Mackenzie Grant?”

Nick nodded. “Jarrod Grant is Mac’s father… and my main contact with the military. We sort of work together.”

“Wow, you’re all just one big happy family, huh?”

He ignored her sarcasm. “Most of the time, though we have our squabbles now and then.”

She stood and paced a little, stopped and stared out the window over his head. The rage had subsided to a bearable level, but the slow burn of anger remained. Along with a big side helping of frustration. “Why didn’t you know?”

“Excuse me?”

She looked down at him to see him frowning at her in question. “You claim to be psychic, right? Why didn’t you know what was going to happen to my brother and stop it?”

His expression became sympathetic. “I’m not psychic; I’m a PreCog. Big difference, because the visions I receive as a PreCog are only a small part of psychic ability. Anyway, I was a special agent with the FBI at the time Micah and the others vanished. I didn’t know the team members seven months ago, but even if I had there’s no guarantee I would’ve seen the event in time to avert it, or at all. I’m not omniscient.”

“So you pick up what you can, like spotty cable television reception?”

One corner of his mouth curled up. “Something like that.”

It was a really nice mouth, too. Sexy. The big bastard was probably an animal in the sack. Though like Dean, the buttoned-down sort wasn’t really her type. Shutting off that line of thinking, she focused on her mission, crossing her arms over her chest. “Okay, the twenty questions routine is wearing me out, and when I’m tired I get cranky. Fill in the blanks for me, starting with what the hell my brother’s job here entails, what he was doing when he disappeared, and what you think happened.”

Nick took a long time to answer. But when he did, his voice was low and patient. “Like most of the team, Micah’s a wolf shifter. Almost six years ago, when he and several of the others were part of a Navy SEAL team stationed in the mountains of Afghanistan, they were attacked by rogue werewolves.”