Page 31 of Silent Prey

Hallstrom hesitated, glancing past them and down the hallway as if expecting to see someone there. A sigh escaped him as he reluctantly pushed the door open wider, gesturing for them to enter. "Alright. Please make it quick."

Stepping in, Sheila was hit by an overwhelming scent of stale coffee and old books. The apartment was a chaotic mess of academic clutter, with stacks upon stacks of books toppling from every surface. Papers scattered across a weathered wooden table were covered in notes written in an almost illegible scrawl. The air was heavy with the aroma of aging paper and the musty scent of ink.

"Just through here," Hallstrom said, guiding them to a sparsely furnished living room. Despite its disarray, there was a certain orderliness to the chaos, a method to the madness that felt peculiarly academic.

Sheila glanced at Finn as they followed Hallstrom into the living room, her eyes communicating her unease. There was a strange energy about this place, a kind of tension that hung in the air like a storm cloud. It was as if the very walls were clenching, holding their breath.

The old professor shuffled forward and sank into an overstuffed armchair, his frail body disappearing into its cushions. He gestured to the adjacent couch for Sheila and Finn to sit.

Sheila took in the room as she lowered herself onto the couch. The mismatched furniture, the crookedly hung paintings, the thick layer of dust on everything—it all suggested a man who didn’t care much for his surroundings. But amidst the disorder, the repeated motifs of nature stood out. Framed photographs of forests, mountains, and the sea adorned the walls, some larger pieces occupying whole sections above bookcases. Models of various animals: a lone wolf, a pod of whales, a swarm of bees – were scattered throughout the room, their placement seeming haphazard but upon closer inspection revealing a certain symmetry. And every spare surface was overflowing with books about biology, zoology, botany that had been eagerly annotated and bookmarked.

Sheila raised an eyebrow at Finn. This man lived and breathed nature, yet he chose to seclude himself in this cluttered apartment in downtown Salt Lake City instead of living out in the open, amid the wilderness he so passionately captured in the confines of his living room.

“I think I’ll just head home,” said the woman who had met Sheila and Finn at the door. She started away, but Finn’s voice stopped her.

“It’s better if you stay,” he said. He smiled, but it was not an entirely friendly smile.

“It’s okay, Michelle,” the professor said. “Just pull up a chair—I’m sure I can answer all their questions to their satisfaction.”

Michelle was clearly unhappy with this, but she complied, reluctantly pulling a chair from the corner of the room. She sat, arms crossed over her chest, silent.

Hallstrom cleared his throat pointedly. "So," he began, gaze flicking between Sheila and Finn. "Diana Morales."

"Yes," Sheila said, straightening her posture. "We understand that she was one of your students?"

"That's correct," Hallstrom confirmed with a terse nod.

“How well did you know her?”

Hallstrom hesitated a fraction of a second, then shrugged a shoulder. “As well as I know any of my students.”

“But not as well as Michelle here, right?” Finn asked. “I mean, Diana wasn’t ‘studying’ here, too, was she?”

Hallstrom gave him a long, blank look. “No, she wasn't," he said finally. "She was just one of the many students who passed through my class."

His face was expressionless, his voice flat, but Sheila noticed the slight tightening of his fingers on the armrest of his chair. He seemed…bottled up somehow. Studying him more closely, it occurred to Sheila that if he were to shed the cane and straighten his back, he would look twenty years younger.

Was it possible he was simply faking his frailty? But if so, why?

“The reason we’re asking,” Finn said, “is that Diana was found dead earlier this evening. Murdered.”

Hallstrom's face did not change, though his grip on the armrest tightened perceptibly. "Murdered?" he echoed, his voice still flat but a shadow crossing his eyes. "That is...unfortunate."

Unfortunate? Sheila thought. It was far more than unfortunate—it was a tragedy, an atrocity. But Hallstrom seemed to regard the news with about as much interest as one might regard a mildly interesting article on the internet.

Hallstrom's gaze met Sheila's, and something flickered in the depths of his eyes—a spark of something that might have been anger or sadness or perhaps even fear—before it was quickly replaced with the calm, indifferent expression he had worn before.

"I'm truly sorry to hear that," he said, his voice flat, as if reading from a script. He pointed toward a decanter on a side table. "Would you like a drink? I find it always helps in...unpleasant situations."

“No, thanks,” Finn said, while Sheila merely shook her head, keeping her gaze on the professor. There was something unsettling about him—the way his eyes seemed to always be calculating, assessing every situation with a cold detachment that suggested he was more than just an eccentric old academic.

"I suppose," Hallstrom continued, his voice maintaining its monotone tone, "you'll want to know where I’ve been."

"Actually," Finn said, "we'd like to know about your relationship with Diana first."

Hallstrom blinked, seemingly taken aback by the question. "Relationship? I've told you, she was a student. Nothing more."

“And yet, you took quite an interest in her online—commenting on her posts, liking her photos, even sharing some of her work. That seems like a bit more than just a teacher-student relationship, wouldn't you say?”

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