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“Let’s rewind. Killer or killers aside, you witnessed Mr. Vilkas mid-transformation, a feat difficult to accomplish on the run, likely why he came to be hoisted onto a rusted hook. His torso, absent extremities, was reported by a paranormal investigator who’d hiked to the slaughterhouse sometime after I’d hauled those kids’ asses back to their mamas. The rest remains unaccounted for.”
I didn’t even want to consider why that might be. “Who reported my house this morning?”
“A doctor on the way to her shift.”
Deb Fitzgerald, an OBGYN across the street. “What’d she see?”
“The current state of your porch plus what appeared to be a tall, thin figure with long hair standing in the woods between your home and the Vilkas residence.”
“A monster?” I didn’t have another word.
“She described the figure as male, dark skinned, and nude.”
“Oh.” I paused. “Is that, uh, typical of werewolves?”
“Clothing doesn’t survive shifts. Unfortunately, multiple pack members and several friends and acquaintances of Stephen’s match her description.”
“Okay.” I took a calming breath, then a second, and a third. “I mean, it’s not okay; it’s terrible. The only monsters in this world are supposed to be men.” My voice sounded hollow and distant and absent emotion. No matter my suspicions, no matter my nightmares of shadowed memories or the injuries she sometimes came home with, Gram swore up and down the only monsters in the world were men. I had wanted to believe her, it was easy to believe her, and now I was falling back into the darkness. “I want to laugh, and cry, and pinch my arm or take a sip of coffee and grow big enough to climb free of this rabbit hole I’ve tumbled into.”
“You’re doing swell.” The man passed my cup. “Helps, being who you are.”
My reflection paled in the side mirror. To stave off a nervous sweat I let his coat slide from my shoulders.
He turned on the AC. “You alright?”
“Nope.” I leaned into the vents, anything to break eye contact. “Realizing how close I came to meeting the grim reaper.”
He frowned. “He ain’t out of your woods quite yet, I’m afraid.”
“Great,” I muttered, summoning the courage to then ask, “What did you mean, who I am?”
The sheriff drummed the wheel. “Well, in my experience, when the earth crumbles underfoot, daydreamers and creative types tend to adapt quick. Figured by your profession, you’re more comfortable than most when it comes to exploring possibilities and expanding horizons. Then there’s the matter of your grandmother’s dolls.”
“Oh.” Breaking his questioning gaze, I laid his coat across the rear seat. When I turned back around, I’d gathered enough composure to maintain a steady tone. “You may be right, sheriff, but werewolves aren’t the sort of concept you can grasp in the span of one medium coffee.”
“Sometimes it ain’t the sorta concept you can grasp in one lifetime,” he said. “If you need a stronger bite to swallow the news down, I don’t mind swinging by a package store. I need to find a suitable peace offering for my boss anyway.”
“Who’s your boss?”
“The bulldog who beheaded your tulip.”
“Ouch,” I said.
“You’ve no idea, Miss Davins.”
“Normally I’d go, but my nerves are rattled enough without alcohol, thanks.” The wrapped sandwich in my lap had become a crinkled stress ball. “I need to proceed through my day demonstrating some semblance of calm.”
“Only to flip the hell out once the sun sets?”
“You get me.” Talk of bosses reminded me that I hadn’t checked my phone all morning. I dared a peek: sure enough, three new voicemails, one each from Keith, Maggie and my boss.
The sheriff glanced over. “That boy trying to call on you?”
“Yep.”
“He strikes me as the blissful sort of ignorant who’d walk past a mile of yellow tape to deliver a bundle of roses in the dead of night.”
I sighed. “Yeah, probably.”
