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But the biggest clue came when one of our people went missing and there were signs of a struggle where they were abducted. There was a piece of paper left behind. We’d already suspected Heather Smith of being involved in the abductions somehow, but finding a piece of paper from The Wolves and Their Beloved Mate really sealed the deal.
Now we’ve got Heather Smith. We’re going to stop at her house and maybe there will be something else there we can use to get her talking. Who knows? Maybe she has one of those walls in her house that serial killers are known for with maps and strings and pictures sprawled across it.
Maybe.
Somehow, though, I can’t shake the feeling that Heather Smith just isn’t capable of something this evil.
Somehow, I think we’re missing something.
“YOU’VE GOT TO BE SHITTING me.”
It’s nearly four in the morning by the time we reach Heather’s residence. The tiny house is located at the end of a long, winding private drive, and it looks like something out of a fucking storybook.
“This is the address on the license,” Gaston assures me. Is it just me, or is he biting back a laugh?
“This? This is where she lives?”
“Come on, man. Let’s just get in there.”
“Is she still asleep?”
“Yeah.”
“Stay with the car,” I mumble. “I got this.”
I walk up the brick sidewalk. Yes, the sidewalk is made out of beautiful bricks. I mean, did she lay these herself? I eventually reach the little two-story cottage. It’s painted blue and has white shutters. Even in the darkness, I can see the carefully planted flowers that surround the little front porch.
It’s beautiful.
It’s absolutely beautiful, and I hate it. I hate that this is her house. It’s much too perfect and pretty to house something – someone – sinister, but this is it.
I walk up to the front door and listen for a minute. I don’t hear anything. Good. If there’s someone inside, they’re fast asleep. I’m planning to pick the lock, but before I get started, I decide to take the easy way out and look around.
Is Heather Smith, or Heather Miracle, the type of woman to leave a spare key outside?
She seemed pretty trusting when I met her. She seemed almost innocent when it came to dealing with the world, and I can’t help but think she just might be the type of person to hide a spare key she can give to guests when they come over.
I check the obvious places: under the mat, on top of the door frame, and under a potted plant. It’s not until I notice a little garden gnome off in one corner that I start chuckling. I reach for it and sure enough, there’s a key beneath it.
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
I toss the key up and catch it easily, proud of just how simple this is all turning out to be. Then I unlock the front door, turn the knob, and step inside.
Easy peasy.
Instantly, though, something hits me in the face. It’s loud and sharp and soft all at the same time. I screech, and I hear Gaston slam the car door and come running. I fight whatever is on me. Is it a pillow? Knives? I can’t tell.
“Fuck!” I cry out, and I try to push it away. The thing falls off my face just as Gaston steps inside and flips the lights on. Instantly, he starts laughing.
“Cats,” he laughs, kneeling over. “You got scared by cats!”
Not just any cats.
Nope.
Heather’s cats are practically guard cats. They’re both standing a few feet away from me and hissing and spitting at me like they hate me. I don’t believe in any sort of second sense or intuition type of stuff, but suddenly, I wonder if there’s any way these kittens can know what I’ve done.
Guilt washes over me, but I shake my head.
