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“I’m sure.”
They turned to look down the path. As usual, there was less snow there. She shivered, felt the wind blow down the trail, turned her cheek so it didn’t hit her full in the face.
“So, there’s your footprints,” said the sergeant. “And on this other side of the trail is where my guys walked through later on so they wouldn’t disturb your tracks. Anything strange, unusual, out of place?”
Barely discernible was her stagger of imprints in the snow. Running parallel to it were windblown footprints the sergeant said had been made by his officers. Around and between these footpaths, the snow was punctured by the small, distinctive tracks of the deer.
“It seemed—it seemed so much farther. Further?”
“Far enough if you’re only wearing slippers.”
“So, he didn’t follow me? I didn’t think he had, but wasn’t sure. Or could he have followed in my tracks?”
She looked at the officers inquiringly. Their arms were folded, faces stony. She turned, took in the blank smoothness of the snow in every direction, broken only by the plowed driveway, the police-flattened track they’d followed, the small trace of her path and the footprints of the officers, made night of.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “Where are his footprints? Were there tire tracks from his car? From when he left?”
Still no response, no movement from the police.
“Did he park somewhere else?”
Her son’s voice reverberated in her head.The police say he doesn’t even have feet.
“It’s a good observation,” the sergeant said. “There were no tire tracks. No footprints other than yours.”
“How is that possible?”
“We were hoping you might be able to explain it.”
“Me?”
“Yeah. Like maybe this place has a secret entrance, same as it had that secret room.”
There was something knocked loose in her skull. She resisted the urge to scratch a finger into her ear canal to try to pull it out. He’sa pigment, her son’s voice said.
“There’s nothing like that,” she told them.
“So how do you think this man managed to get out here, get into your house, with no tracks? No car?”
“I don’t—maybe—” She saw the floors in her house, scratched, grimy. The attic dust scuffed. “Maybe your guys drove over his tire tracks? Walked through his footprints?”
The sergeant shook his head at her, his eyes hard blue marbles. “Nah.”
“How can you be sure?”
“My guys took photos when they got here. Snow-covered driveway, no tire tracks. No footprints when they did their initial sweep.”
“He could’ve walked here. Parked somewhere else? Then his tracks got snowed over. Blown over.”
“Your tracks are still here, though. We checked that night, and there were no larger tracks over yours. Checked the perimeter of your property, too. Nothing disturbed but your tracks out the front door and down that path.”
A choking panic welled up from her belly.
“Maybe he’s—could he have come earlier? Been waiting in the house for us? Hiding?”
“It’s possible. But there was already snow on the ground before the storm. So there should have been a sign of some disturbance, some tracks. Did you see anything? Notice any signs, footprints, that day?”
She thought back. She’d logged the children in to their remote morning school. Left the house at twelve thirty, as usual, to take the kids to afternoon in-person school. Ordered from the grocery store. Picked up the kids, picked up the food. Watched them eat, her own appetite still lacking.
