Donovan had ridden in the back of the town car all the way down the rural road and up to his house. He should have been relaxing. The case was over. He had a driver from the airport to his front door. He didn't even have to pay attention to the roads.
But there was nothing to relax about.
Eleri had told him not to contact her. She’d been clear that she needed time and space. But how much time? And how much space? She hadn't given him numbers, and it had already been far too long in his book. But what did he know?
All of this was out of his wheelhouse. If he couldn't sniff something and determine a disease, then it wasn't anything he was comfortable with.
He ignored the twisting in the base of his gut, the one that said Eleri was his first real friend. Who else should he talk to about the fact that his friend needed time and space but the friend who wasn't answering her phone? He’d already broken down and called her.
Just to check, he told himself.
He’d rung through to her voicemail—not a surprise—and left a brief message.
“Ell, I don't have your skills, so I have no idea how you're doing. Please, message me back… something. Any form of contact is acceptable. Let me know you’re okay…. Thanks.”
It had been only a few short, choppy sentences that he hadn't constructed well, despite the fact that he'd agonized over what to leave on the message for quite some time. He'd shoved the phone back in his pocket, not expecting anything. After all, he hadn't gotten any reply the last three times he’d reached out. Now he felt he was bothering her when she’d specifically asked him not to.
But what if she wasn’t okay?
The car turned the corner and Donovan could see his house in the distance. The long road was partially shaded by trees. He usually felt so good when he reached this street, and though he was forcing his shoulders down and his muscles to unclench, simply being here felt better.
This was home.
This was a house he owned—the only permanent residence he’d ever had. He’d fixed this place to his own needs with no concern for any landlord. He’d worked on it, knowing he’d stay and enjoy it, not get ripped out in the middle of the night or have to find something new at the end of the semester.
The wide, covered front porch and tan paint job made it look like every other house on the street. Even though they were well-spaced—a selling point for him—he still tried to go unnoticed. He’d come a long way, but not that far. The house was the only thing about him that looked and felt like it belonged.
In the backyard, he’d built the high fence himself. The lot was large enough and private enough that he could use the space in any form he chose, and it opened into a national park, giving him acres and miles and hectares of woods. He could run and stretch his legs, his paws pounding the ground, the smells of nature luring him farther. Even now, he was thinking he might go right in the front door and right out the back.
The car pulled up the long drive, slowly winding its way across the gravel and coming to a stop.
Donovan once again looked at his little house. No cursory glance this time, but a thorough evaluation.
Everything was in place.
Breathing easier, he slowly opened the car door. The driver had already hopped out and gone around to the back to pull out Donovan’s bags. Whether he was trying to be ahead of his fare in a polite and courteous way, or if he was simply trying to get rid of the rider that had taken him so far out into the country, Donovan couldn't tell.
For the effort, he offered a generous tip.
Grabbing his largest bag, he headed up the walk, leaving the other luggage on the drive. No one was around for miles—at least not close enough to steal his suitcase. He would fetch the other pieces once the car was gone—and once he’d done a walkthrough. The large suitcase bumped along behind him, the gravel of the drive uneven. The walk to the front door was only a little smoother, though it was definitely more charming with its matching tan pavers. But it was not an easier place to drag the suitcase.
He knew better than to try, and with a grind of his teeth, he slid the long handle down inside the case and reached for the short leather one, hauling the luggage up by his side.
As he lifted it the last few feet, he reached the top step—and stopped dead.
Despite the breeze, a scent lingered in the air around his front porch. With a sharp turn of his head, Donovan looked to see that the car he’d arrived in had already backed out and was heading down the street, far enough away. Donovan whipped his head from side to side. No neighbors were in view, so he took a chance.
Tipping his head back slightly, he let his nose expand. He was listening, too, but some of what he might have heard was obscured by the slight popping of the bones in his face as they shifted. He felt his lower jaw ache as it dropped and moved forward.
He didn’t need any more transformation to open his nasal passages. Sure enough, his initial assessment had been right. He felt the scent bloom in his head.
Bodhi had been here.
In fact, his brother had been here only moments before. Dropping the suitcase with a heavy thud, Donovan whirled around. Bodhi could not have gotten far.