One Eye Open. Karen Whiddon

doesn’t mean he wasn’t involved.”

      “He wasn’t.”

      The puppy whimpered, shifting in her arms. Some of her tension must have communicated itself to the animal. Taking a deep breath, Brenna forced herself to relax.

      “You’ll see,” she told him. “Once we find him, I’m sure he’ll have a reasonable explanation for everything.”

      Ignoring her, Carson exited the freeway and pulled into a service station.

      While he refueled, Brenna concentrated on her new companion. He had to have a name. For now she would call him Phelan, little wolf.

      As she spoke the name out loud, three times in the custom of her people, the puppy raised his head. He lifted a small foot, accepting the naming with quiet dignity. As she took his paw in her hand, Brenna saw a splotch of rust marring the white fur. Blood, dried and flaking. Surely Carson had tissues or something in the glove box. A sidelong glance showed her that he had his back to her.

      She opened the glove box. Inside there were no tissues, only a few sheets of paper, crumpled and wadded into a ball. One of those would have to do. Smoothing one out, she glanced at the words printed on it and froze.

      “Leave of Absence—Medical.” Swiftly she scanned the rest of the document. In disbelief she read it again, before crumpling and tossing the paper back. Carson Turner had lied. Whatever he did, he was no longer acting under the auspices of the DEA. Since early summer, he’d been on forced medical leave. Six months ago. That meant that in his hunt for her brother, he was acting alone and unsanctioned, his reasons personal rather than official.

      A private vendetta. Now, more than ever, she knew she had to find Alex first.