Page 8 of Wolf's Chance

The walls were covered with sketches, paintings, and a few portraits. Nothing was framed or even looked professionally finished, but her personality shone through, revealing more about her than anything else in the house. The landscapes were mostly of local scenery, one of Main Street in winter, which had an impressive amount of detail. The sketches were mostly done in pencil. One seemed to be charcoal, but most of them were black-and-white abstracts of familiar landmarks created by clever use of light and shadow.

I paid more attention to the portraits. An older couple was predominant throughout, sometimes together, most times apart. Her friend from this morning was also scattered about, her face sketched at varying angles. I recognized the woman from the diner and the guy from the bakery—he really did seem to be everywhere I went.

As I absorbed her artwork and admired her skill, I noticed a common thread to it all. The same was true for her house. She wasn’t featured in any of her art, and I hadn’t seen a single framed photo of her either.

Yet, this room, it washer. From the skewed sneakers at the entrance of her closet to the half-empty water glass by her bed. The drapes were pushed back so far they couldn’t be seen from outside. The scattered artwork may have been capturing moments in her life that she wanted to keep close to her.

The small adjacent bathroom held a washbasin, toilet, and shower. White walls, white ceiling, white floor.

I’d seen hospital wards with morepersonality.

A mirrored cabinet over the sink revealed the normal hygiene items, for a woman who lived alone. The condoms were the only thing interesting. Tapping the lid of the unopened box, I looked around, checking that I had missed nothing.

Back in her bedroom, I opened her closet and stepped into the small space. Immediately I was enveloped in her scent. And something else. Something I couldn’t quite identify.

Her drawers held no secrets apart from the very unsurprising fact that her taste in underwear was as bland as her taste in home decor. Plain white tees were only broken up by a handful of black T-shirts instead. Three pairs of jeans hung harmlessly in the corner, and being no fashion connoisseur myself, I wouldn’t put my life on it, but they all looked exactly the same: same fit, same color, same unremarkable jeans.

She had two hoodies, one gray and one black.

This woman could be a spy for all I knew. She’d blend in a crowd, and if anyone ever broke into her home—myself not included—they’d be so bored they’d leave.

She owned nothing of value. No jewelry. No laptop, no tablet. It seemed she chose to isolate herself from technology. I’d seen one TV in the living room, but that was it.

When I came out of the closet, I got down on my hands and knees and looked under the bed. I found a pencil. Considering how spotless the floor was, under the bed was almost a chaotic mess with its lone wayward pencil.

I turned on the spot as I soaked in the room, taking note of the art, the bed, the drapes, taking in everything that the room told me. If there were mysteries in this room, they were well hidden.

“Who are you?” I mumbled as I began to lift her drawingsoff the wall to see if they were masking Willow’s secrets. They weren’t. The walls were bare behind them.

Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was her space. More than just her room, this was where she was comfortable. I felt it when I walked into the room, and I still felt it now.

Picking up her pillow, I inhaled deeply, my wolf nose picking up a scent I wouldn’t associate with Willow. Sour almost. Bitter.

“Now what’s this?” Pulling off the pillowcase, I pushed my nose into the soft pillow. The bitterness was deeper, stronger.

“Sickness?” Drawing my head back, I looked around the room once more. “What am I missing?” A small drawer in her desk revealed a diary, which contained coded letters and numbers, and the more I looked at it, the more I saw the pattern. “You’re ill.” Frowning, I flipped through the pages again. The code was unique to Willow, but a pattern was there. I just needed to know what the pattern was for.

Returning to the kitchen, I opened the refrigerator, my lip curling in disgust at how little meat there was. The shelves were filled with fruit and vegetables, and the only meat she had was two skinless chicken breasts.

Almond milk, bottled water, and one bottle of wine rounded off the contents of her fridge.

A search through her cupboards revealed nothing more exciting than some crackers, canned soups, and protein bars.

Nothing indicated she was sick. But now that my nose had the scent, I could smell it everywhere. Faint in the kitchen and on her couch, but it was there. Lingering.

She wasn’t diabetic. She had carbs and candy, more than an emergency stock if she dipped in blood sugar. There was nomedication, except one bottle of Tylenol, but most homes would have some form of painkiller in them.

In her bathroom, there’d been nothing to note except that she chose regular tampons, not plus. The only other thing worth noting was her choice of condom was the ribbed kind in regular size.

“I know less about you than when I walked in,” I grumbled, returning to the fridge. Yesterday, I’d watched the teenager eat chips and drink soda, yet I’d seen nothing that hinted at that in my recent search. “You don’t eat someone’s last bag of chips and think you won’t get caught…” Looking through the cupboards again, I frowned. “Unless you know he’s here and leave themforhim.”

That made sense.

Why though?

Did he need somewhere safe? Was he in danger? Chewing the inside of my cheek, I again scoured the place, hoping I missed something.

“She’s a bleeding heart?” Rolling my head on my shoulders, I shrugged off the feeling of irritation. I’d never come across a blank slate before.

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