Becoming A True Alpha (Teen Wolf)

Chapter 17: Those We Loved

Chapter 17:

"Miss?" The young Deputy speaks cautiously. He gives my shoulder a gentle shake. "I am going to need to ask you a few questions."

I blink several times, taking in the hectic scene around me. The looming shadow of black that had fallen on the forest is now flooded with the luminescent red and blue of dispatched police vehicles. I watch as unfamiliar faces set up barriers with strips of yellow tape; strangers unearth a shallow grave with shovels as men in uniform look anywhere but at me.

I adjust the blanket draped around my shoulders and address the young boy, "I already told the Sheriff what happened," I say, meeting his gaze. I am not supposed to be cold- I don't get cold. But a chill has settled into my bones that I can't shake.

His youthful face darkens with a quick glance into my own eyes and I no longer see a boy. In what would seem to be his late twenties, this Deputy is impractically good looking. But after ushering me away from the crowd of investigators and offering me a wool blanket from the back of his patrol car, this was the first time I could see the Deputy as a man- much less one old enough to have any kind of authority. "I understand you aren't wanting to repeat yourself. In order to file a report, I am going to need you to disclose information on the record."

"I just knew," I tell him. "I went for a walk to clear my head and I stumbled across the grave."

The boyish man's gaze dips lower and grief strikes his chiseled features as if it physically hurts him to pry further. "Ms. Mordre-"

"It's Lucy," I correct him. I do not want that vile name- that part of my father to be associated with me any longer.

"Right, Lucy." The Deputy trades his position of towering stature for one of less authority. He makes himself comfortable in the vacant spot next to me on the hood of the squad car. The vehicle's frame gives a small lurch before becoming still once again. His sudden breach of my personal space is something I am unprepared for. He seems like the type to follow every rule, to take professionalism to his very grave. But he lacks the force and edge most officers have. He isn't pleased to bring up the matter and I appreciate the restraint. "I believe you. I want you to know that."

A giggle erupts from my throat, but it quickly dies off with the gloom of the situation. "You would believe me when I say I just stumbled across a dead body?" I ask in disbelief. Maybe I wouldn't have to mention having the thoughts of my dead mother guide me here.

"I think things happen in this world- things we can't quite explain. Beacon Hills doesn't seem to be an exception to that."

A flicker of light reflects off his badge and I am able to make out the engraved name as Parrish. If the circumstances were any different I might have worked up the courage to snort-out-loud. In a town where death seemed to loom around every corner, Parrish could easily be the next one to perish. "Sir, it's nice to hear that you believe in a greater power- really it is," I glare into his soft green eyes, searching for a tell. But I might as well be staring into a pool of clear water. There is no knowledge hiding below the surface. "-but sorry to disappoint you. No magical fairies or shooting stars brought me here."

A raspy laugh escapes Parrish's throat and a charming grin follows in pursuit. "Make fun of me all you want, but there's something about you and your friends; Lydia Martin, Stiles Stilinski, and Scott McCall-" I find myself flinching with each name he says. "-something that I can't quite put my finger on."

I observe the man carefully; ignoring his bottomless gaze, as it tells me nothing. He seems to be in his early twenties. His badge is missing the smudges and layer of grime that comes from wearing it on the job. A crisp and polished uniform means he hasn't worn it long. Having just come to this precinct, Parrish had a large gap of time between high-school and now. I would guess college or university, but his worn features tell me otherwise. Tense movements and tired eyes that reflect years of wisdom for such a young boy. This isn't a product of studying for exams. No, it is a product of living on a battlefield, fighting for life and witnessing as it slips away.