The two detectives stepped into the kitchen, where the sweet, heavy aroma of baked apples and cinnamon filled the air, thick enough to make their mouths water.
“Excuse me, what line of work are you in, Mr.
Orson?” Nick asked offhandedly, his eyes sweeping the room’s layout.
Exquisite English bone china was arranged behind glass cabinet doors, and the small lace window curtains were spotless.
The only elements that seemed remotely out of place were a heavy metal sausage grinder fixed to the counter and several links of cured meat hanging near the back pantry door.
Mid-summer was hardly the season for home meat curing.
“Like you two, I’m a public servant,” the man replied, pulling on a pair of thick fabric oven mitts before lifting the golden-brown pie from the oven rack.
“I’m a mail carrier.
It’s not glamorous work, but I enjoy the routine.”
At this point, Hank completely lost his patience.
Forcing a tight, polite smile, he took a step back toward the hallway.
“Well, sorry to take up your evening, sir.
I think we’ve covered what we need.”
Without waiting for Nick to respond, Hank turned and walked quickly back into the living room toward the front entrance.
Nick caught Hank by the elbow before he could reach the doorknob.
“Come on, Hank, can’t we run a quick check on the truck outside first?”
“Nick, we’re wasting our time,” Hank muttered under his breath, shaking his head.
“If this guy had anything to hide, he wouldn’t have invited us in for pie.
We’ve seen the layout—does he look like a monster who tears people apart in the woods?
I’d suspect my own grandmother before I suspect this guy.
I’d like to keep my badge…”
Hank reached for the handle again, but froze as a soft, rhythmic humming drifted from the kitchen.
Orson walked into the living room carrying the steaming pie, humming a familiar, upbeat pop melody under his breath.
“Sweet dreams are made of this…”
Hank’s face went pale.
He turned around slowly, his voice rising an entire octave.
“What are you humming?”
Nick stared at the postman, his mind racing.
He belatedly recognized the tune—it was Eurythmics’ Sweet Dreams, the exact song playing on the iPod found near the body of the murdered student in Forest Park.
“It’s you,” Hank breathed, his hand instinctively dropping toward his holster.
“You killed her!”
The lights slammed out.
With a guttural, terrifying roar, Orson moved with unnatural speed.
He hurled the iron baking tray and hot pie straight at Nick’s face, his body undergoing an active woge in the darkness—his jaw elongating, coarse fur sprouting across his cheeks, and his eyes flaring a vivid, predatory blood-red.
Nick’s tactical instincts kicked in instantly.
“Awoooo!”
A second, deafening howl shook the small living room.
Hank, caught flat-footed at the doorway, didn’t even have time to unholster his weapon before two hundred pounds of muscle and fur slammed into him, throwing him backward onto the porch.
“Halt!
Police!” Nick sprinted to the open door, bringing his Sig Sauer up to target depth.
Outside under the moonlight, Hank rolled across the wooden deck, hit the dirt, drew his service weapon from a prone position, and squeezed the trigger.
Bang!
Bang!
The muzzle flashes illuminated the yard.
The creature, sprinting away on all fours ten yards out, stumbled violently and collapsed onto the damp grass.
“Damn it…” Nick muttered, his head throbbing.
If he’s dead, we lose the kid.
Nick bolted out of the house, grabbing Hank by his tactical vest to pull him back to his feet.
Both officers kept their sights trained on the fallen figure as they closed the distance.
“Nick…
did you see that?” Hank stammered, his arms trembling as he held his Glock in a two-handed grip.
“His face…
he was…”
“Focus, Hank.
We’ll sort it out later.”
Nick knelt beside the body and flipped the man onto his back.
As Orson turned over, the crimson glow in his eyes faded away, his features collapsing back into a human face.
Hank took a startled half-step back, swearing under his breath.
“Where is she?” Nick demanded, pressing down on the entry wounds.
“Where’s Robin?”
Two dark pools of blood were spreading rapidly across Orson’s chest.
Hank’s shots had been dead accurate, piercing the lungs from behind.
“Hah…
hah…” Orson gasped, blood bubbling at the corner of his lips as he struggled for air.
He stared up into Nick’s face, his pupils dilating.
“You…
you’re a…
Grimm…”
With that final, choked whisper, Orson’s head rolled to the side, his chest falling still.
“Fuck!” Nick spat, slamming his fist against his knee.
“She has to be in the house,” Hank rasped, clutching his bruised ribs. Visit g.com for the full chapter.
“Let’s check the back rooms again.”
“No, stay here,” Nick ordered, stepping between Hank and the porch.
“Call dispatch.
Request medical and forensic backup, and report shots fired.
I’ll search the interior.”
Nick re-entered the cabin, flicked the living room light switch, and began a systematic search.
He checked under beds, cleared the bedroom closets, and inspected the pantry.
The house was meticulously clean—Orson’s compulsive neatness meant everything was organized, leaving no visible place to conceal a child.
Standing by the stone fireplace, Nick took a deep breath, forcing himself to analyze the structure.
The single-story cabin had no attic, and the exterior walls weren’t thick enough for a hidden passage.
If she’s not above ground, she’s under it.
Nick began stomping his boot heel across the floorboards.
Near the center of the living room, beneath the double sofa, the sound shifted from a dull thud to a hollow ring.
He shoved the heavy sofa aside and pulled back the hand-woven rug, revealing a wooden trapdoor set flush with the floorboards.
Nick grabbed the iron ring and pulled up hard.
The heavy door swung open with a creak, revealing a dark, earthen cellar below.
From the gloom came a faint, muffled whimpering.
Nick descended the wooden ladder, feeling along the wall until his hand hit a toggle switch.
An bare bulb flickered to life, illuminating a small, clean cellar.
Tied to a small cot in the corner was Robin, her red jacket dirty but intact, a thick strip of tape covering her mouth.
Nick hurried over, carefully peeling the tape from her lips before cutting the soft ropes around her wrists.
“Hey there,” Nick said softly, dropping to one knee so he was at eye level with her.
“I’m a police officer.
You’re safe now, sweetie.
I’m taking you home.”
The little girl looked at him with wide, tear-filled eyes.
As Nick lifted her into his arms, she buried her face in his shoulder, her small hands clutching his jacket tightly.
Standing in the dim cellar, Nick felt a tight knot in his chest loosen.
Outside, Hank stood guard near the edge of the driveway, his eyes scanning the dark treeline at every rustle of the wind.
The terrifying howls, the impossible speed, the four-legged sprint—none of it fit any tactical scenario he had encountered in ten years on the force.
And then there were the eyes.
Hank recalled how he had razzed Nick a few days ago about handling his first line-of-duty shooting, only to find himself in the exact same position forty-eight hours later.
His mind spun through stress responses, wondering if he needed to schedule a session with a department therapist.
The distant wail of police sirens broke the silence, growing louder as patrol units navigated the forest roads.
Hank turned toward the porch as the front door swung open.
Nick walked out into the cool night air, carrying Robin wrapped safely in his jacket.
The little girl held onto Nick’s neck, her long eyelashes still wet with tears, but a small, relieved smile showed on her face as the blue and red lights began to reflect off the surrounding pines.