Perhaps Monroe had been telling the truth when he claimed that two Blutbaden could not safely share the same hunting ground.
Nick studied the small cabin hidden among the trees, then glanced at Monroe.
The clockmaker’s eyes had turned red again, and his face kept threatening to slip into its wolf-like form.
Nick motioned for him to retreat.
They had found the location.
From this point onward, rescuing Robin Howell was Nick’s responsibility as a police officer.
Whatever Monroe might be, he was still a civilian voluntarily assisting an investigation.
There was no reason to force him into a dangerous confrontation, especially when his unstable condition suggested he might attack the other Blutbad, Nick, or even the missing child.
Monroe pressed a hand against a tree and struggled to steady his breathing.
“You’re right,” he admitted.
“If I go any closer, I might hurt the girl.
I’m sorry, but you’ll have to handle the rest alone.” He patted Nick’s shoulder and turned to leave.
“Wait.” Monroe stopped and looked back.
Hollywood movies might have demanded that Nick charge into the cabin alone and demonstrate heroic courage, but he had no intention of behaving like a reckless action star.
He was a homicide detective, not a vigilante wandering through the wilderness in search of monsters.
The newly awakened Grimm bloodline sounded impressive, but Nick did not feel any sacred duty to abandon his former life and begin hunting Wesen.
At best, he viewed his abilities as another useful advantage, much like Lightning Reflexes or Suspended Animation Recovery.
Becoming a supernatural executioner held little appeal.
Nick had played enough fantasy games in his previous life to understand how such people were treated.
Geralt of Rivia might have been a skilled monster hunter, but ordinary civilians still distrusted, insulted, and blamed him whenever anything went wrong.
The continued existence of Wesen society also suggested that the truth was more complicated than Monroe’s stories made it sound.
These creatures had survived for centuries while remaining hidden among humanity.
If Grimms were capable of simply exterminating them, someone would have done so long ago.
Aunt Marie’s silence created even greater doubts.
She had raised Nick without revealing the journals or explaining his heritage.
Once he became independent, she left Portland under the excuse of traveling across the country.
Perhaps she had wanted to protect him from this world.
Nick already owned a comfortable house, had a promising career, and possessed the Magic Movie Ticket.
He saw no reason to throw away everything merely because an inherited ability had awakened inside him.
“When you reach the nearest town, find a pay phone,” Nick instructed.
“Call 911 anonymously and report hearing a little girl crying somewhere in this forest.
Give them the location.” Monroe stared at him.
“You’re a police officer.
Why do you need me to call the police?” “Do you expect me to tell Captain Renard that a werewolf followed a scent through the woods and led me to the missing child?” Monroe considered the problem before nodding slowly.
“That could be difficult to explain.” “Make the call and leave.” Nick waved him away, then removed his phone and contacted Hank.
Thirty minutes later, an aging gray Mercury Grand Marquis appeared at the far end of the narrow forest road.
Hank parked beside the wooden bridge and stepped out.
He spotted Nick waiting near the creek and approached with barely restrained urgency.
“Where is he?” Nick pointed beyond the water.
“There’s a cabin across the creek.
Our suspect should be inside.” Hank looked around the isolated area.
“Where’s the backup?
You didn’t call only me, did you?” “That’s exactly what I did.” Hank stared at him in disbelief.
Nick adopted a wounded expression.
“All I have is an anonymous tip.
After I tackled an innocent clockmaker inside his own home this afternoon, you’re probably the only officer in Portland willing to take me seriously.” The incident with Monroe had not caused as much trouble as Nick implied.
Because he and Hank had discovered Robin’s backpack and the matching footprints, Captain Renard had overlooked the mistaken search.
Monroe had also declined to file a complaint.
Still, Nick needed a believable explanation for locating the cabin.
“I returned to apologize to the clockmaker,” he continued.
“He told me he saw a suspicious delivery van near Berkeley Park.
I checked nearby traffic cameras and managed to trace its route toward this area.” Nick pointed through the trees.
A small box truck was parked near the front of the cabin, partially concealed by the surrounding vegetation.
“That should be the vehicle.” Hank studied his partner’s face.
“How confident are you?” “Thirty percent.” Hank immediately turned back toward his car.
Nick sighed.
“Even if there’s only a one-percent chance, we have to check.
Robin is six years old.” Hank stopped.
After several seconds, he turned around with a defeated expression.
“Fine, but promise me you won’t throw anyone onto the floor the moment they open the door.” “I promise to evaluate the situation first.” “That wasn’t a promise.” “It’s the best you’re getting.” Hank muttered under his breath before following Nick across the creek.
The heavy door knocker struck the wood with a sharp metallic rhythm.
The sound carried through the warm summer night, disturbing the steady chorus of insects surrounding the cabin.
A few moments later, the door opened and soft yellow light spilled across the porch.
A middle-aged man wearing a spotless white apron stood inside.
His hair was combed into a perfect side part, and his clean-shaven face displayed a calm, welcoming expression.
The rich aroma of apples, cinnamon, and baked pastry drifted from somewhere behind him.
“Good evening,” the man said slowly.
“May I help you?” Hank’s gaze immediately dropped toward his feet.
The homeowner wore plain brown shoes rather than eight-eye Dr.
Martens boots.
Hank’s earlier anticipation disappeared, though he quickly restored his professional expression.
“Sorry to disturb you.
I’m Detective Hank Griffin, and this is my partner, Detective Nick Burkhardt.
Do you have a few minutes?” “Of course.” The man opened the door wider.
“Would you gentlemen like to come inside?” “That would be helpful,” Hank replied.
The detectives entered while discreetly examining the interior.
The single-story cabin was modest in size.
A fireplace occupied one wall of the living room, while open doors provided a clear view into two small bedrooms.
Nothing suggested that another person was hiding nearby.
The space looked warm and carefully maintained.
Handmade decorations filled the shelves, and embroidered throw pillows rested neatly along the couch.
Hank walked toward one and lifted it.
“These are beautiful.
My grandmother had pillows with similar designs.” The homeowner stepped beside him and gently touched the stitched flowers.
“I embroidered them myself.” He offered Hank a meaningful smile, and his voice became slightly softer.
“I don’t usually tell people.” Hank’s expression froze.
He occasionally wore an earring and enjoyed carefully chosen clothes, but there was no ambiguity concerning his interest in women.
The homeowner’s tone made him wonder whether the conversation was moving in an uncomfortable direction.
An alarm sounded from the kitchen before he could respond.
The man brightened.
“That will be the apple pie.” He turned toward the kitchen.
“Please make yourselves comfortable.
You should try a slice while it’s warm.
We can speak over dessert.” Hank waited until the man disappeared before leaning closer to Nick.
“You have to be kidding me.
This is your dangerous kidnapper?” Nick kept his voice low.
“I can bake apple pie, and that doesn’t prevent me from carrying a badge.” Hank looked toward the embroidered pillow still in his hand.
“You don’t sew flowers onto cushions.” Nick glanced toward the kitchen as the smell of fresh pie grew stronger.
“That doesn’t prove he’s innocent.” “No, but it makes your thirty-percent estimate look extremely generous.” Nick ignored him and studied the surrounding rooms again.
The cabin appeared harmless, but Robin’s abductor had chosen this area for a reason.
A box truck sat outside, the scent had led Monroe directly here, and the homeowner had invited two detectives inside without showing the slightest concern.
That calmness bothered Nick more than open nervousness would have.
From the kitchen came the soft scraping of a knife cutting through pastry.
Nick rested one hand near the P226 beneath his jacket.
Whether the man embroidered pillows or not, something inside the cabin still felt wrong.
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