It seemed Monroe’s assertion about “one mountain holding only one wolf” held true.
Nick cast a brief glance toward the secluded cabin tucked into the timber, then turned back to Monroe, whose pupils were flaring a violent, luminous blood-red again.
He gestured for the clockmaker to fall back.
Now that the location was confirmed, it was time to handle things under color of law.
Supernatural dynamics aside, Monroe was effectively a civilian assisting in a police operation.
There was no tactical justification for dragging him into an active insertion.
Besides, given Monroe’s unstable physical state, Nick had serious doubts about whether he’d end up facing two apex predators at once if he pushed further.
By Monroe’s own admission, a Blutbad in full woge lost much of its civilized restraint, and territorial infighting frequently turned lethal.
“You’re right…
if I get any closer, I might lose control and hurt the kid,” Monroe rasped, his jaw muscles clenching as he fought down the shift.
He clapped a hand onto Nick’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry, man, but you’re on your own for this part.”
“Wait,” Nick stopped him.
While cinematic convention dictated a solo, heroic charge through the front door, Nick was a trained military veteran and a detective.
Charging an unknown structure housing a predatory target without backup was a good way to end up on a coroner’s slab.
This wasn’t about rigid procedural adherence or doubting his ability to stop a Blutbad alone.
Rather, as a pragmatist, Nick recognized the immense operational utility of his police credentials.
Having a newly awakened Grimm bloodline was certainly useful, but in practice, it functioned like an unvetted bounty hunter operating in a legal gray area.
He recalled playing The Witcher series in his past life—the protagonist, Geralt of Rivia, was hardly a celebrated figure among ordinary townsfolk.
The fact that Wesen had coexisted with humanity for millennia, remaining utterly invisible to modern society, indicated a deeply entrenched, highly adaptable underground structure.
Given that Aunt Marie had concealed his heritage for twenty years, only leaving him to figure things out after her sudden departure, Nick suspected the global reality was far more complex than Monroe’s simplified explanations suggested.
He owned a house in Portland, drove a reliable vehicle, possessed a comfortable career, and carried a unique genetic ability.
He viewed the awakening of his Grimm traits simply as acquiring a specialized tactical skill; he felt no mystical sense of divine crusade.
“When you get back to your car, find a public payphone,” Nick instructed quietly.
“Call 911 anonymously.
Report that you heard a child crying in the woods near this road, then give them the exact coordinates.
Understand?”
Monroe blinked in genuine confusion.
“You’re a cop.
Why do you need me to call the precinct?”
“Because telling my Captain a reformed werewolf tracked a missing child using his nose isn’t going to look great on an official incident report,” Nick deadpanned.
He motioned for Monroe to make himself scarce, then pulled out his cell phone to dial his partner.
Thirty minutes later, Hank Griffin’s gray Mercury sedan coasted to a quiet halt at the overgrown turnaround near the footbridge. Enjoying the story? Read on at g.com.
Hank cut the engine, stepped out into the humid night, and walked up to where Nick was standing in the shadows.
“Where is he?” Hank asked without preamble, adjusting his jacket.
Nick gestured across the dark creek toward the treeline.
“In the cabin tucked behind those firs.”
Hank looked around at the silent woods, his brows furrowing.
“Where’s the entry team?
You didn’t just call me out here solo, did you?”
“I did,” Nick said, adopting a slightly defensive tone.
“I received an unverified tip from a local contact, but I couldn’t confirm the details over the radio.
After what happened at Monroe’s house earlier today, you’re the only one who wouldn’t write this off as a wild goose chase.”
He laid the groundwork deliberately.
In truth, because the two of them had located the original crime scene in Forest Park earlier that week, Captain Renard hadn’t pressed Nick over the minor entry misunderstanding at Monroe’s residence—especially since Monroe hadn’t filed a formal misconduct complaint.
“I went back to double-check a detail with Monroe tonight,” Nick lied smoothly.
“He mentioned seeing a light-colored delivery box truck lingering near the park perimeter on the day Robin went missing.
I ran a quick check on registered commercial vehicles in the area and flagged a hit.”
Nick pointed toward a small, white box truck parked beneath a canopy of pines near the cabin’s driveway.
“That’s the vehicle.”
Hank eyed the truck, then looked at his partner.
“How confident are you?”
“Thirty percent?”
Hank turned on his heel to walk back to his car.
“Even if it’s a long shot,” Nick called out dryly, “we’re talking about a six-year-old girl.
If there’s a chance she’s in that cabin, do we just walk away?”
Hank stopped in his tracks, letting out a long, heavy sigh.
He turned back around, pointing a finger at Nick.
“Fine.
But you promise me you won’t tackle anyone to the floor the second the door opens.
We knock, we assess, we play it by the book.”
Clang, clang, clang.
The heavy brass knocker echoed sharply through the quiet summer night, cutting through the steady hum of crickets.
A moment later, the front door swung inward.
Warm yellow light spilled onto the porch, accompanied by the rich, sweet scent of freshly baked apple pie.
A middle-aged man stood in the doorway wearing a crisp white chef’s apron over a button-up shirt.
His dark hair was meticulously combed with a neat side part, his jaw cleanly shaven.
“Can I help you with something?”
Hank immediately dropped his gaze to the man’s footwear.
Seeing a pair of ordinary, brown leather slip-on shoes, the sharp anticipation in Hank’s posture faded into routine police demeanor.
“Sorry to disturb you so late, sir,” Hank said, producing his badge.
“I’m Detective Griffin, this is my partner, Detective Burkhardt, Portland Police.
Do you mind if we ask you a few quick questions?”
“Not at all,” the man replied warmly, stepping back to open the door wider.
“Please, come inside out of the night air.”
“Appreciate it,” Hank said, stepping across the threshold.
The interior was a compact, single-story layout.
From the living room—which featured a stone fireplace—the layout of the adjacent rooms was almost entirely visible.
The doors to two small bedrooms stood wide open, showing tidy, unoccupied space.
The home was decorated with quiet, precise domesticity, and the throw pillows arranged neatly on the sofa featured intricate, hand-stitched floral patterns.
Hank walked over to the sofa, picking up one of the embroidered pillows to initiate casual rapport while scanning the space.
“Nice needlework.
My grandmother used to make patterns like this.”
“I embroidered those myself,” the man said smoothly, walking over and gently brushing a stray thread from the fabric.
He offered Hank a subtle, polite smile.
“Though I usually don’t advertise it to visitors.”
Hank’s pleasant expression froze for a fraction of a second.
While Hank had a taste for tailored suits and subtle ear studs, his interest lay entirely with women.
Before the brief silence could become uncomfortable, a kitchen timer dinged loudly nearby.
“Ah, the pie is finished,” the man announced with a pleasant wave of his hand.
“Please, gentlemen, sit down.
Allow me to slice you a piece of fresh apple pie, and we can discuss whatever brought you out to my quiet corner of the woods.”
As the host turned and glided into the kitchen, Hank leaned close to Nick, whispering under his breath, “Are you serious?
This is your prime suspect?”
“I can bake a pie,” Nick murmured back, keeping his eyes fixed on the kitchen doorway.
“Doesn’t mean I can’t be dangerous.”
Hank rolled his eyes.
“Yeah, but you don’t do needlepoint.”