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"She looked terrified, though."

"She's been running from a murder investigation for almost two weeks. Of course she's terrified."

"That's not what I meant."

He looks away, staring through the windshield. That’s what he does when he needs to think.

I know he understands what I’m saying. He's just not ready to talk about it.

Typical Forge.

"She's hiding something," he finally says.

"Absolutely."

He turns back to me, surprised. "You're agreeing with me?"

I shrug.

"Of course I am. She admitted there were other people in that house, but she wouldn't tell us anything about them."

"Because she knows who they are."

"Maybe."

"Pierce,” he pushes.

"What?"

"Come on. You saw her face when I asked if she'd seen them."

"I did."

"Then you know she's lying."

"I know she's scared to tell us something. That's not the same as her being guilty."

He grunts, which is about as close as I'm going to get to an agreement.

I want to scream at him about the scent-match; ask why he is still being so harsh on her. But I know what his answer will be.

Being our scent-match doesn’t mean she’s not a murdered.

And it’s a lot easier to see it that way when her scent isn’t driving us crazy.

I look toward the bakery.

Somewhere upstairs, Raewyn is probably trying to figure out what the hell just happened, too.

"Whatever happens," I say, "we can't let this interfere with the investigation."

Forge turns toward me.

"You're telling me that?"

"Yes."

"You're the one who told her you believed her."