Witching Moon by REBECCA YORK

in Wayland is hereditary?” he asked.
    â€œNo. I ran for the office and won it.”
    Adam nodded, considering what Delacorte had chosen to tell him. “Do you think that old murder is connected to Ken White?”
    Delacorte hesitated for a moment before saying, “I don’t have any evidence to link them.”
    â€œWhat’s your gut feeling?” Adam asked.
    The sheriff gave him a long look. “I’m reserving my judgment.” He stood up. “I think you’d better show me the location where you found the campfire—and the people last night.”
    Adam set down his glass with a thunk and stood as well, certain that the sheriff had decided to end this phase of the interview.
    He was pretty sure there was more to tell about Wayland’s past problems. He was also pretty sure he wasn’t going to hear about them this morning.
    â€œYou know the road at the east edge of the park?” he asked, and Delacorte nodded.
    â€œThere’s a barrier across the lane. The fire pit was about a half mile farther up the road.”
    â€œYou got the time to carry me up there now?”
    â€œI’ve got the time. I want to know what the hell’s going on in my park.”
    â€œI could station a deputy out here at night.”
    â€œNo!” Adam’s answer was instantaneous, and he immediately regretted that he’d spoken so quickly—like a man with something to hide.
    Delacorte held up a hand. “Just a suggestion,” he said, and Adam knew the sheriff was wondering if he was up to something unsavory at night out here. Like growing marijuana.
    Probably he wouldn’t like knowing that the head ranger was prowling the park in wolf form at night.
    He’d thought that with his wolf senses, he’d be able to figure out what had happened to his predecessor. So far it hadn’t turned out that way. But he did know that both Paul Delacorte and Austen Barnette had been expecting trouble. Unfortunately, the park’s owner had chosen to withhold that information from his new employee.
    â€œSo, you have any choice suggestions for me?” he asked.
    The sheriff hesitated for a moment. “Yeah. Don’t sit with your back to the window.”

CHAPTER
FIVE
    SARA WALKED INTO the kitchen of the small cottage, turned on the tap in the sink, and let it run, waiting for the stream to cool before she drew a glass of water.
    She downed it in several gulps, then stood staring out the window at the grove of trees that surrounded her rented house. There were black gum, sweet bay, and an old water oak hung with Spanish moss that must have been hit by lightning at one time. It was split up the middle. But somehow it had survived and grown in a lopsided fashion.
    The trees would have been lovely if there had only been a few. But too many had grown up around the little house.
    â€œDarkness at noon,” she muttered.
    Even in the middle of the day, it was dismal under the canopy of branches, as though the sun had gone into a permanent eclipse. She’d never liked the dark. And here she was in a house where mold and moss grew on the roof and the siding, like insidious unwanted visitors.
    A light breeze fluttered through the leaves and the moss hanging on the tree branches. It wasn’t enough to do much for the damp, heavy air. But the rustling sound skittered over her skin like insect legs.
    As if to ward off a chill, she folded her arms over her chest and rubbed her shoulders. This place gave her the creeps, and she had learned not to ignore her intuition. She wanted to throw her possessions into the car and flee. But that was not an option. Not when she’d effectively trapped herself here.
    Granville Pharmaceuticals had written her out of the blue and offered her an enormous research grant. She’d been flattered and relieved to get a job. She’d taken a lot of the first payment and sent it directly to the outfit that held the note on her