Fur

07 | A Familiar Stranger

I've decided I'm quite fond of the lead pipe. It's weight in my hand is a great comfort, the solidness of it even more so. Some might find its position in my floorboard as I drive through the village to be disconcerting, though with the events of the last two days, I'm not particularly concerned with appearing crazy.

The sun is still up, though it's on its descent. I speed over the bridge and wheel into the McNamaras' driveway. The last of my errands lie here.

My lead pipe and I inspect the property for any visitors—outside, since I know there had not been any to come in. I find no one hiding in the back garden presently; but I do find a trail of mashed flowers in one of Nanni's garden beds, leading to a place of wallowed dirt behind a large rose bush.

A bead of ice water trickles down my spine as I stand in that spot of bare dirt and peer through a small hole amid the leaves of the bush. Just enough twigs have been broken to give me a direct line of sight to the white spiraled bench on the back porch: the exact place where Lattie and I sat almost twenty-four hours ago.

Had we been watched?

I sicken further when I remember getting up from the bench and going inside, leaving Lattie and Nanni sitting out here alone... being watched.

I suddenly wish, not irrationally, that I had a bear trap on hand instead of a lead pipe. The crushed foliage and stamped petals of the McNamaras' stalker's hidden path would make a fine place to set it. And considering the wear of the dirt, I'm sure he has plans to return.

I step out of the shrubbery and flowers begrudgingly, knuckles white on the pipe. This man, whoever he is, has started a war that I'll make sure he doesn't finish.

He won't, because I will.

I think of the details surrounding Sophie Schwarz's death as I fill a bucket with water. I compile a mental timeline of events in my head as I squeeze in an ungodly amount of soap. I review my list of suspects as I scrub the oily handprints from the ground floor windows with just enough restraint to avoid shattering them.

Werewolf presence in Heisenbühl aside, the human stalker has risen to the status of prime suspect. Konrad has done nothing suspicious besides show up, and the werewolf who'd left me a note in my door has displayed no explicitly aggressive tendencies or ill intent thus far. Yes—the human stalking the McNamaras is the most likely of the three to have harmed Sophie.

When news first broke of her death, I had assumed that the killer was a serial one. That assumption was based off of shock and distress, but now, it appears to be coming true.

Serial killers have types. They kill in patterns. Sophie and Lattie fit the same pattern and check the same boxes.

Petite.

Fair haired.

Sweet faced.

Young.

Lattie may fit this predator's checklist, but I surely do not. Standing at five foot seven inches rather than Lattie's five foot two, with a head of dark auburn hair and an expression far from being described as "sweet," I'm unlikely to catch the killer's eye. But he's caught mine.

Once the windows are free of any evidence to frighten Lattie or Nanni, I move to the side of the house for a cursory glance at the phone box. Upon opening the squeaky, thin metal lid, I find what I expected to: the line cut clean in half.

This isn't an offense that can be remedied as easily, and so for a brief moment I consider my options. Maybe we'll all just move exclusively to cell phones, I decide as I shut the metal lid. It would probably be safer, anyway. If Nanni can be convinced to keep it with her at all times, and if she can listen to someone else long enough to learn how to use it.