Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Ricky counted the push-ups in his head, the steady cadence of exercise soothing and calming to his churning mind.
Undercover almost a month and Ricky had yet to uncover a single clue or even a rumor about a killer targeting shifters. Don't tell me I got assigned to the wrong prison. An anger he'd fought long and hard to master threatened to bubble up.
When the shifter council approached him after the death of his brother-say it like it is, his murder-he'd jumped on the chance to help them mete out justice. He'd known the suicide verdict couldn't be true. His little brother Joey would never have killed himself, and certainly not by slitting his wrists.