Page 97 of Evidence of a Folktale

“No.”

“Have any cast or crew members been named a suspect or person of interest?”

“No.”

“So, Aesop’s Files isn’t to blame? It’s Bajka.”

“Basically.”

Barry sighed, and Bel already knew what he was going to say. “The crimes occurred far from the sets and production trailers. They also happen away from the fan events and the cast and crew hotels,” he explained. “The show isn’t the problem. Your town is. You wouldn’t close a coffee shop because its employees died after hours at another location, would you?”

“No,” Bel conceded.

“And you wouldn’t force a bank to halt all business because its tellers were murdered in the woods, would you?”

“No.”

“The same goes for this show,” Barry said. “I don’t see how I can shut filming down because their cast and crew members leave their hotels to grab snacks or hookup with strangers and cross paths with a killer. Nothing happened during production, so they have every right to work. Is it considerate or smart to keep filming? Probably not, but their sets are safe and void of evidence.”

Bel fell forward, her head bouncing off her desk as she groaned.

“What I can do is send an agent to assist with the case,” Barry said, clearly hearing the aggravation in her sigh. “I’m too busy to come, but perhaps an FBI agent’s presence will speed things along.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Bel said. It was asmartidea, but it wasn’t the answer she’d hoped for. She’d hoped Barry would ride into town like a knight in a black sedan, but he was right. The studio valued their bottom line more than their cast and crew, but the act of filming the episodes wasn’t the issue. It was people leaving their hotels when they shouldn’t, and that’s when the studio lost all responsibility. They were liable for what happened on their set, or in their trailers or accommodations. They weren’t responsible for drunk men who snuck out to sleep with strangers who purposely tricked the cops or women who craved chips. That wasn’t the show’s fault. It was Bajka’s for not having safe streets and homes.

“Say the word, and I’ll send someone to help you,” Barry said.

“Thanks. I’ll let you know.”

“Sorry it’s not what you wanted to hear,” he said, his voice more sympathetic than his words.

“It’s okay,” Bel said. “Nothing about this case is what I want.”

Bel pulledinto her parking spot and jumped out of her car, the night late and her mood irritable. Maybe she should accept Barry’s offer and let an FBI agent relieve her of this case. She was tired of chasing theories that turned out to be figments of her imagination, and she couldn’t bear hunting evil through the snow. Her fingers were eternally cold, and her exhaustion fought to convince her it would’ve been better if she lost them on the mountain so she wouldn’t have to feel the frost stiffen her joints.

Bel dug her aching fingers into her pocket and pulled out her house keys. She needed to eat and hug her dog before her downward spiral dragged her any further, but beforeshe made it halfway down the walkway, a black luxury SUV burst from the shadows and skidded to a halt behind her car, blocking any vehicular escape. Its rear door shoved openthe instantthe wheels stopped spinning, but Bel had her Glock in her hand before the Italian leather shoe crunched down on the snow.

“There’s no need for that, Detective,” the stranger said as he settled before her, and the already frigid air burned colder in his presence. He was handsome and dressed in a suit that cost more than her car, which was saying a lot since her SUV originally belonged to Eamon. But it was his eyes that stole the breath from her lungs. They were more snake than human.

“I’m simply here to talk.” He raised his hands in surrender, yet somehow, the gesture was a threat. “You’ve been making a lot of…” he paused as if trying to convey his insult diplomatically. “Noise,” he settled on. “Reports of your concern have reached even my ears, and it’s becoming a problem. You want Aesop’s Files to halt filming, but I’m here to tell you that cannot happen. Too much is at stake to approve any delays.”

“And too many lives have been lost,” Bel spat, tightening her grip on the Glock. “Human beings are more important than a TV show, regardless ofitspopularity. This needs to stop before the death toll becomes a burden we’ll never recover from.”

“Humans can be replaced,” the man said, and Bel’s stomach cramped atthe wayhe spoke theword,as if mankind was a swarm of ants that he was contemplating grinding to a pulp below his heel. “New directors and writers can be hired. New designers can be found. Actors can be recast, but if production shuts down, it’ll ruin the season. Ratings cannot be replicated as easily as producers can. I won’t risk our show’s standing.”

“I won’t be bullied by ratings,” Bel said, her hands gripping her gun so tightly that her knuckles strained under the pressure. “I won’t?—”

The stranger lunged forward, shoving his face into hers, and Bel flinched, his aggression almost as forceful as a slap. Gooseflesh pricked her already icy skin, and he had her wrist in his fist before she could even think to pull the trigger.

“Don’t get in my way,” the man whispered, his mouth so close that his breath hit her lips, and tears unconsciously ran down her cheeks. How could she be so stupid? Why had she provoked him? She knew who this was. This was the deal, the reason the show had grown so popular overnight, and he’d traveled to Bajka to collect his debts.

“I have no issue with you, Detective,” he continued, pushing his face closer to hers until his lips practically brushed against her recoiling cheek. “I have no desire to hurt you. I don’t care about your existenceat all, but the moment you stand in my way, you become my problem. I can’t have that, Detective. The show must go on.”

“Get your hands off me,” she demanded, her tears freezing to her cheeks, and as if he understood the danger she was in, Cerberus loosed an earth-shattering growl. She could tell by the rattle of her front door that he was slamming his body against the wood, his violence so profound that even the deal hesitated to toss a wary glance at the cabin.

“Let go of me,” Bel repeated, reaching for her necklace with her free hand, but her movement caught his attention.

“Don’t fight me, Detective.” The man grabbed her wrist, stopping her from pressing the panic button, and despite the defiance in her voice, her tears still came. This stranger had eviscerated four people. She didn’t want to be the fifth.

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