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a broken wrist and two broken ribs and he won’t talk.”
    â€œYou don’t believe the foster family.”
    She gave an indignant huff. “The Linnfords look like Mr. and Mrs. Brady. She smiles and nods when he speaks and he is all charm and concern.” She huffed again and spoke very precisely, “I wouldn’t believe them if all they were doing was giving me the time of day. And I know Devonte. He just wants to get through school and get a scholarship so he can go to college and take care of himself.”
    He nodded thoughtfully. “So why did you call me?” He was willing to have a talk with the family, but he suspected if that was all she needed it would have been a cold day in hell before she called him—she had her brothers for that.
    â€œBecause of the photos.” She held up the folder in invitation.
    He had to drive a couple of blocks before he found a convenient parking place and pulled over, leaving the engine running.
    He pulled six photos off a clip that attached them to the back of the folder she held and spread them out to look. Interest rose up and he wished he had something more than photos. It certainly looked like more damage than one lone boy could do: ten boys maybe, if they had sledge hammers. The holes in the walls were something anyone could have done. The holes in the ten foot ceiling, the executive desk on its side in three pieces and the antique oak chair broken to splinters and missing a leg were more interesting.
    â€œThe last time I saw something like that . . .” Stella whispered.
    It was probably a good thing she couldn’t bring herself to finish that sentence. He had to admit that all this scene was missing was blood and body parts.
    â€œHow old is Devonte?”
    â€œSixteen.”
    â€œCan you get me in to look at the damage?”
    â€œNo, they had contractors in to fix it.”
    His eyebrows raised. “How long has it been?”
    â€œIt was the twenty-first. Three days.” She waved a hand. “I know. Contractors are usually a month wait at least, but money talks. This guy has serious money.”
    That sounded wrong. “Then why are they taking in a foster kid?”
    She looked him in the eye for the first time and nodded at him as if he’d gotten something right. “If I’d been the one to vet them I’d have smelled a rat right there. Rich folk don’t want mongrel children who’ve had it rough. Or if they do, they go to China or Romania and adopt babies to coo over. They don’t take in foster kids, not without an agenda. But we’re desperate for foster homes . . . and it wasn’t me who approved them.”
    â€œYou said the boy wouldn’t talk. To you? Or to anybody?”
    â€œTo anybody. He hasn’t said a word since the incident. Won’t communicate at all.”
    David considered that, running through possibilities. “Was anyone hurt except for the boy?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWould you mind if I went to see him now?”
    â€œPlease.”
    He followed her directions to the hospital. He parked the car, but before he could open the door she grabbed his arm. The first time she touched him.
    â€œCould he be a werewolf?”
    â€œMaybe,” he told her. “That kind of damage . . .”
    â€œIt looked like our house,” she said, not looking at him, but not taking her hand off him either. “Like our house that night.”
    â€œIf he was a werewolf, I doubt your Mr. Linnford would have been about to knock him out without taking a lot of damage. Maybe Linnford is the werewolf.” That would fit, most of the werewolves he knew, if they survived, eventually became wealthy. Children were more difficult. Maybe that was why Linnford and his wife fostered children.
    Stella jerked her chin up and down once. “That’s what I thought. That’s it. Linnford might be a werewolf. Could you tell?”
    His chest felt tight. How