Page 55 of Forensics of a Fable

“Good. I don’t care how much money you have. You put my detective in harm’s way, and I will make sure you live the rest of your days behind bars.” The sheriff turned toward the house, and Eamon smirked as he followed. Bars would never hold him, but if something happened to Bel, he would willingly surrender to the darkness of prison. There was no point to this life if he lost his beauty.

“Bajka Police!” Griffin shouted as they approached the front door. “Foley Locks, we have a warrant to search your property.” He paused, but only silence answered him. “Bajka Police!” He repeated his statement, but Eamon heard the stillness. No one living waited inside that house, and after arriving at the same conclusion a minute later, Griffin ordered a deputy to break down the door.

The sight that greeted them was depressingly filthy, and it took a single glance for Eamon to know they would find nothing. The sparsely furnished rooms were reminiscent of a college fraternity and not the home of an adult male. Dirty dishes filled the sink. The bed was unmade, its sheets unwashed. The bathroom was stained and littered with beard trimmings. The towels were crumbled and moldy, and the grime didn’t match the pristine cleanliness of the victims. The home’s stench overwhelmed Eamon’s senses, but despite the overpowering refuse, he knew Bel wasn’t there. The stale air confirmed no one had occupied the space in weeks.

“No basement, but there’s a stand-alone garage out back,” a deputy said, approaching Griffin with a wary glance at Eamon. “It has nondescript walls like Detective Gold described, but no Detective Emerson or green blankets. No signs of women being held there, either.”

“No one’s been here in days.” Griffin rubbed the exhaustion from his face. “The food in the fridge has spoiled. The dishes in the sink reek. Foley Locks hasn’t been home in a long time,which makes sense if he’s our killer. This is the first place we would look.”

“Does he own other properties?” Eamon asked, readying to storm those locations, warrant or not.

“I don’t know,” Griffin said. “The station will have to search the records for that information. Perhaps he has access to family property or a friend’s? Either way, he isn’t here. The only crime here is sloppy living.”

“We’re finding nothing incriminating,” a tech confirmed. “No blood in the house. No signs of the women. No furniture or wood carving supplies, Pentobarbital, or nightgowns. If Locks is the killer, he never brought his crimes home.”

“How certain are you that Locks is guilty?” Eamon asked, surveying the living room in disbelief. The stain underneath his shoes painted a picture of this home’s owner that did not align with a man who so thoroughly cleansed his victims that he left no trace of himself behind.

“He…” Griffin paused, as if suddenly realizing the man beside him wasn’t one of his detectives. Eamon watched the sheriff argue with himself about how much he should reveal, and then, as if every wall of his resistance crumbled, he sighed. “He worked at Brick House Veterinary when the Pentobarbital was stolen, the drug that killed both women. The victims were also clients of Brick House, as is Emerson. It’s the only lead we have besides the crime scenes located on your property, but this residence doesn’t fit the narrative. So, I don’t know if he’s guilty or if he was at the wrong place at the wrong time.” Griffin looked at Eamon with exasperation. “Maybe we need sleep after staying at the hospital all night. Go home. I’ll go to the station and have my people examine the records and evidence again while I nap in my office.”

Eamon opened his mouth to protest, but the sheriff’s phone rang. He pulled it out and read the name on the screen.

“It’s Gold,” he explained. “Go home, Mr. Stone, and get some rest before we make a mistake that costs Emerson her life.”

Eamon did not return home.Portia Cochons had called to inform him that Cerberus was free to be picked up. The pitbull was overjoyed the second he walked through the vet’s doors, and Eamon wasn’t sure if his fear for Bel inspired the need, but he carried the dog to his car instead of walking him. Holding the solid body brought him comfort, the dog’s fur still wearing Bel’s scent, and he understood why she loved this pitbull so much. Cerberus looked harsh with his black fur, cropped ears, and muscular form, but his spirit was as beautiful as Bel’s, and both mother and pet had wormed their way into his ancient heart. Eamon knew she would be worried about her beloved baby beast, and he intended to care for the animal as if the dog were his own until she returned to him.

A vet tech had already walked and fed Cerberus, so Eamon loaded the pitbull into his car and drove into town, parking across the street from the station. He settled in to watch, but he didn’t have to wait long. Within forty-five minutes, Ewan Orso was released from police custody. Eamon slipped from his vehicle and followed him down the sidewalk, but just as he was about to call out, Orso darted into an alley. Eamon squinted with suspicion and rushed after him, but the man was fast. He disappeared behind a shop, vanishing as if he’d never existed, and Eamon picked up his pace.

“I’m leaving, all right?” Ewan lunged into view as Eamon rounded the corner, his hands raised in alarmed surrender. “Bajka is your town, and I respect that. I’m gone. Just give me achance to get my stuff and say goodbye to Olivia. She deserves an explanation after what she’s been through.”

“I’m not asking you to leave.” Eamon crossed his arms over his broad chest, amusement flooding his eyes at Orso’s reaction to him.

“You’re not?” Ewan’s voice stuttered. “Then why are you following me?”

“Because the police have nothing, and maybe twelve hours left of the timeline remains before the killer tries to destroy what’s mine,” Eamon answered. “The Reale Estate is vast and my faith in the mortals finding her in time has expired. Her death is not an option, so while predators rarely work together, I’m here to ask for your help. If I’m going to find Isobel, I need the bear.”

Bel’s eyelidsfelt as if someone had glued them shut, and it took an unusual effort to open her eyes. The world was blurry, and her head thick. Every inch of her was sluggish, and for hazy minutes, blinking was all she could manage. She took stock of her body as her senses returned. Fabric rested against her skin, and soft padding lay beneath her. The air was warm, but it held a stale, mildly unpleasant scent. Light fell on her from above, but even with her blurred vision, she knew it wasn’t natural but fluorescent. She was inside, somewhere furnished with electricity, and that unexpected reality gave her the final push to consciousness.

Bel groaned, her voice hoarse from disuse as she pushed herself to a seat, and fear settled in her gut as her surroundingscame into view. She’d expected to wake seated on a chair in a rundown cabin on Eamon’s property where he would find her, but a single glance warned her assumptions were mistaken. Her prison looked like a windowless basement, remodeled to have cabin-like qualities. The wallpaper was a pathetic attempt to replicate wood paneling, and a giant but worn circular knit rug covered most of the concrete floor. A table with two chairs stood in the middle of the room, and she sat on a twin bed that was pressed up against one wall. The furniture was also welded to the floor, making it impossible to use them as potential weapons. The mattress boasted a single pillow and a nondescript green blanket, and Bel froze as she removed the thin covering from her legs. For a moment, she simply stared at her own body, and then her panic doubled. She was wearing a white vintage nightgown with long sleeves that tapered at her wrists and small purple flowers printed in faded patterns. She tried to ignore what her change of clothing meant, tried not to concentrate on the smell of soap clinging to her skim. She felt no pain, which meant he’d only touched her to swap her outfit, but she still felt violated. At least her underclothes remained untouched. The other women had been missing theirs, and Bel’s eyes snapped to the table. It was human-sized, as was the mattress. Perfectly normal furniture. Just right, just like her. She was the final victim.

Bel’s gaze shot back to the walls, scanning the printed paper, but her mind drew a blank. This wasn’t right. Everything else about the scene matched. The furniture. The nightgown. The brunette. But she was in a basement and not a decaying hunting cabin, which didn’t fit the killer’s M.O. The included bed differed too, and her still foggy brain tried to decipher a reason for the deviations. She stared at the table as she forced her mind to focus, and another difference struck her. There was no porridge.

Her body relaxed slightly. No porridge meant the killer was coming back, and she didn’t think he was expecting herto be awake. He most likely assumed he was returning to an unconscious victim, and she would not waste the opportunity. She wondered why she was alert. It seemed the other women hadn’t been allowed to regain consciousness, but she couldn’t recall her last seconds before the nothingness. She’d been in the woods with Cerberus, then she’d woken here.

Cerberus!Bel flinched at his name. Where was her dog? Was he all right? Why didn’t she remember her abductor’s face? She wanted to panic, her heartbeat already increasing as she pictured her pitbull, but she forced her breathing to slow. She listened to the stillness, praying sounds would be her ally, but the room told her nothing. She lingered on the mattress for long, silent minutes, but she knew almost immediately her attempts were useless. The only sounds were hers. Wherever she was, the walls were too thick to let the outside in.

Bel shoved the blanket aside and stood up, rushing for the door. The killer used a sedative to overpower his victims, which meant he wasn’t a fighter. If she caught him unaware when he entered the room, she could—

Bel’s chest slapped the concrete hard as she fell, her ankle a blaze of white-hot pain. She couldn’t stop the cry that escaped her lips or the tears that pricked her eyes. The impact’s violence stunned her, driving the air from her lungs, and with frantic movements, she tried to scramble forward. The clink of chains sounded behind her a second before the bruising agony pulsed through her ankle, and with wild, unhinged emotions, she whirled to find a lock clamped around her leg. Bel seized the chain and tugged, but the clang of metal was her only answer as it refused to budge. Her fingers followed the cold links, and the reason the bed was welded to the floor made sudden sense. She was chained to the frame, the length long enough to reach her side of the table, but no further. Not the door nor the chair directly in front of it.

“No.” Bel yanked, but the metal did not yield. “No. No. No.” She thrashed violently, but there was no use. The thick restraints would never release her.

The lock behind her clicked, and she cursed as the door opened. She scrambled back until her spine hit the bedframe since her plans for escape were useless now. There was nowhere for her to run. Nowhere for her to move. The killer could sedate her easily with her ankle chained like a bear in a trap.

“Hello, Detective. I brought you some food. I’m sure you’re starving.” Her abductor stepped into the room, and Bel’s memories flooded back. Abel Reus. Awkward, but harmless, Abel was the killer, and nausea engulfed her stomach as she watched him place a bowl down before the chair on her side of the table.

“Come. Eat.” He gestured to it as if he was offering her a meal from a five-star restaurant and not Pentobarbital-laced breakfast cereal.

“Go to hell,” Bel growled as she retreated until her back hit the wall.

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