Griffin Westmore's dissertation: 'Comparative Anatomy and Sensitivity to Catnip (Nepeta Cataria) in Tigers (Panthera Tigris) and Lions (Panthera Leo).' Jesus, she really is an expert. Let's see what she has been up to after she got her degrees.
She followed another link to the homepage of the US Forest Service. There was no photo, but the page listed Griffin Westmore's work phone number, e-mail address, and title — wildlife biologist — and let her know that Griffin belonged to the Ouachita National Forest office. Arkansas. I wonder what brings her up north? Can't be our pleasant weather.
Clicking on a few more links provided nothing new until she stumbled across a newspaper article about a project that Griffin Westmore had been working on. The article described the difficulties in getting a radio collar on bobcats and was nicely written, but what held Jorie's interest was the photo at the bottom of the article.
Griffin Westmore stood with two other people, captured in the middle of explaining something to them. Jorie couldn't tell whether the man and the woman in the picture were really short or the zoologist was really tall. The way she was bending down to talk to them made Jorie think it was the latter.
A shiver ran up and down Jorie's spine as she swept her gaze over the photo. Maybe it was just the camera angle, but everything about Griffin Westmore seemed big and threatening — the large hands that were holding a map, the broad shoulders, the square jaw, and the slightly too long nose. Oh, come on. Don't let your overactive imagination get the better of you. The picture is too grainy to even tell the color or the look in her eyes, so how could it possibly make you feel uneasy?
Still, she couldn't help feeling wary about meeting the imposing woman. If she had dark hair instead of that reddish-golden mane, she would look like one of the sinister antagonists from my early stories. Then another thought hit Jorie. A woman in uniform, huh? She smiled at the thought.
In the picture, Griffin Westmore was wearing the sage green pants and the tan uniform shirt of the US Forest Service. A tag over her left breast pocket had either her title or her name written across it. Jorie couldn't read it due to the low quality of the picture, but she guessed it to say "wildlife biologist."
She's the real deal, Jorie admitted. Maybe meeting with her could help me figure out a few things. It doesn't even have to be a long getting-to-know-you chat. Asking her a few well-prepared questions will make sure I don't waste either of our time, and it's better than sitting around and waiting for this damn writer's block to pass. With one last glance at the photo, she started to write an e-mail to Griffin Westmore.
CHAPTER 4
G RIFFIN LICKED A drop of rain from her lip. It tasted earthy, like fall, very different from the rain in Arkansas. Once again, it reminded her that she was in a stranger's territory, out here in the rain, waiting for hours. Not that she minded the rain or the waiting. She had inherited her Puwar mother's love for water, not her Kasari father's hatred of getting wet. And like all cat-shifters, she had the patience to wait out her prey.
Stalking through the forest surrounding the house also let her know that in the last few days, no shifter had passed this place. No Wrasa scent clung to the bark of the trees. If a traitor had visited Ms. Price's house, he had taken a different route.
The shadow of the woman crossed in front of the window, then again in the other direction as if she was pacing back and forth.
Griffin didn't move. The darkness and the dense foliage of a group of trees kept her well hidden while she watched the house. The constant movement of the writer made her twitchy like a cat that was forced to watch a mouse dart back and forth right in front of her paws. I wonder what got her so unsettled. Is the leak someone in the council or a saru, someone who told her she's in deep trouble? Or is
She followed another link to the homepage of the US Forest Service. There was no photo, but the page listed Griffin Westmore's work phone number, e-mail address, and title — wildlife biologist — and let her know that Griffin belonged to the Ouachita National Forest office. Arkansas. I wonder what brings her up north? Can't be our pleasant weather.
Clicking on a few more links provided nothing new until she stumbled across a newspaper article about a project that Griffin Westmore had been working on. The article described the difficulties in getting a radio collar on bobcats and was nicely written, but what held Jorie's interest was the photo at the bottom of the article.
Griffin Westmore stood with two other people, captured in the middle of explaining something to them. Jorie couldn't tell whether the man and the woman in the picture were really short or the zoologist was really tall. The way she was bending down to talk to them made Jorie think it was the latter.
A shiver ran up and down Jorie's spine as she swept her gaze over the photo. Maybe it was just the camera angle, but everything about Griffin Westmore seemed big and threatening — the large hands that were holding a map, the broad shoulders, the square jaw, and the slightly too long nose. Oh, come on. Don't let your overactive imagination get the better of you. The picture is too grainy to even tell the color or the look in her eyes, so how could it possibly make you feel uneasy?
Still, she couldn't help feeling wary about meeting the imposing woman. If she had dark hair instead of that reddish-golden mane, she would look like one of the sinister antagonists from my early stories. Then another thought hit Jorie. A woman in uniform, huh? She smiled at the thought.
In the picture, Griffin Westmore was wearing the sage green pants and the tan uniform shirt of the US Forest Service. A tag over her left breast pocket had either her title or her name written across it. Jorie couldn't read it due to the low quality of the picture, but she guessed it to say "wildlife biologist."
She's the real deal, Jorie admitted. Maybe meeting with her could help me figure out a few things. It doesn't even have to be a long getting-to-know-you chat. Asking her a few well-prepared questions will make sure I don't waste either of our time, and it's better than sitting around and waiting for this damn writer's block to pass. With one last glance at the photo, she started to write an e-mail to Griffin Westmore.
CHAPTER 4
G RIFFIN LICKED A drop of rain from her lip. It tasted earthy, like fall, very different from the rain in Arkansas. Once again, it reminded her that she was in a stranger's territory, out here in the rain, waiting for hours. Not that she minded the rain or the waiting. She had inherited her Puwar mother's love for water, not her Kasari father's hatred of getting wet. And like all cat-shifters, she had the patience to wait out her prey.
Stalking through the forest surrounding the house also let her know that in the last few days, no shifter had passed this place. No Wrasa scent clung to the bark of the trees. If a traitor had visited Ms. Price's house, he had taken a different route.
The shadow of the woman crossed in front of the window, then again in the other direction as if she was pacing back and forth.
Griffin didn't move. The darkness and the dense foliage of a group of trees kept her well hidden while she watched the house. The constant movement of the writer made her twitchy like a cat that was forced to watch a mouse dart back and forth right in front of her paws. I wonder what got her so unsettled. Is the leak someone in the council or a saru, someone who told her she's in deep trouble? Or is
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