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Chapter 2

Here I am, quill in hand, writing the first words of a report that will never see the light of day if I can help it. Indeed, there are things man is not meant to know. But, one fateful afternoon, my blindfold of blissful ignorance fell, and for a few moments I was exposed to truths I had no business learning of. Now I know things that would earn me a nice straitjacket and a permanent visit to a padded room in an asylum somewhere, should I ever try telling other people.

But I need to tell someone, even if that someone is just me, to try and lighten the crushing weight of such revelations. Otherwise, I fear they will forever haunt me in my dreams. Hence why I'm sitting at my desk right now, starting the most confidential report I will ever pen in my entire career. It is so confidential that no set of eyes other than mine may ever gaze upon it. To ensure that, I've already determined that I'm 'filing' it beneath a tile under my bed upon completion, never to be seen again.

Now, then, where should I start...

I suppose a date would do. Well, the month was April, and the year, 1156. The exact day eludes me, but I don't think it matters. Regardless, it all began when I, inspector Frederique DuPont of Roud City's Child Protection Services agency, received a document pertaining to a case from a few years prior. It was an official notice from the Royal Bank of Roud.

“To whom it may concern:" it began. “On May 1st of the current year, account number XXXXX will be closed, and its existing balance will be repossessed by the Crown, as stipulated in Article XX of our Terms of Service. Reason of closure: current owner has made no attempt to formally claim the funds stored in the aforementioned account. Notes: whereabouts of the owner are unknown/untraceable/not on file. Addendum: as five years have passed since the owner's legal tutor last contacted us, and all our efforts at reaching them proved unsuccessful, we have no recourse but to proceed with the closure of this account on the date specified above."

At first, it wasn't immediately apparent whose account it was referring to, as all names were withheld for legal reasons. But I did have an account number, so I asked my secretary to dig through our file cabinets for any case folder tied to that bank account. A few hours later, I had an old, worn out manila folder in my hands. The cursive writing on the front, scribbled in black ink, read: “Case XXX: Marder, Anabelle Sophie."

Ah, yes, Anabelle. That little albino girl from St. Belaroix. Born in 1133, she lost her mother in 1141, and had lived under the care of her stepfather ever since. Anabelle's biological father, as I recalled, was one James Lenoir, a young gentleman who had inherited his father's vast fortune. Unfortunately, he lost his life in the war with Kreuzland, roughly six months before the birth of his daughter.

Anabelle's case was opened when the Bank of Roud was notified of her mother's passing. The latter had inherited James' riches upon his demise on the battlefield a few years prior, and named their daughter as the sole heir to all of it in her will. However, Anabelle was only eight years old at the time. Bank account ownership cannot be transferred to a minor, so a few conditions were put in place. In fact, they were part of the will as well.

Anabelle's stepfather, one Marc M. Marder, was to care and provide for her as her legal tutor until she turned eighteen years old, at which point she would be able to release the hold on her biological parents' account and claim those funds as her own. I myself was assigned the task to check on her on the first day of every month, to make sure all her needs were met. And so, from 1141 to 1151, I did exactly that. Inspecting children's living conditions in this manner is in my job description after all.

At first, Anabelle seemed to be relatively fine, all things considered. She lived in a big, fully featured house, and her stepfather appeared to be taking good care of her. Yes, she was rather distant and taciturn, but that was to be expected, since she had just lost her mother. Still, as time went on, I began to notice that something simply wasn't quite right. Perhaps it was the lifeless silence permeating every room I could see, or how I never saw a single toy or doll anywhere in the house, or the conspicuous lack of domestic servants, given the size of the estate, and so on and so forth...

Just about the only thing that instilled any semblance of actual liveliness in that household was that they had a dog. A white poodle, if I recall. Otherwise, I couldn't shake the feeling that there was a dark secret lurking behind the apparent veil of normalcy I was always presented with. Then again, one does not devote two decades of their life to working with criminally mistreated children without developing a sense for these things.

Of course, I always asked Anabelle if there was anything I needed to know. And always, without fail, she would tell me that everything was fine, and that she was very happy there — even when Mr. Marder wasn't present in the room. But those responses sounded so hollow to me somehow, as though she was reciting nothing but a rehearsed line from a script. Even her smiles seemed strained, like they were masking a horrible pain underneath. And her eyes... Those were the heartbreaking eyes of a child who wanted to scream for help but couldn't.

As for Mr. Marder himself... To be blunt, I never liked that man. As pleasant as he appeared on the surface, there was something eerily unnerving in the way he acted. To put it in other words, he was far too nice. Far too saintly. Far too all-loving. It simply felt artificial, as though he was wearing a face that wasn't his own, especially in contrast to Anabelle's dour, introverted demeanor. Every time he referred to her with some variation of “oh, my poor, beloved child," it just made my skin crawl.

I brought up all these concerns to my boss more than once, but he always told me the same thing: “Hunches and impressions have no legal value, Fred. We can't prosecute anyone based only on what you think might be happening. Without either a signed statement from the girl or some tangible evidence of mistreatment, our hands are tied. You may not like it, but that's just how it is."

I hated that he was right. Without something more solid than mere conjectures on my part, there simply was nothing to be done. So I hoped that I was wrong. I hoped that I was just seeing things that weren't really there. Maybe Mr. Marder's niceness wasn't a facade, and maybe nothing sinister was going on behind closed doors. Yes, I'm ashamed to say that my only recourse was to try and delude myself into dismissing all the warning signs as the baseless delusions of an overworked mind.

Eventually, she turned eighteen and the case was considered closed, as she was no longer a minor. If Anabelle wanted to move away, or maybe just have Mr. Marder removed from her home, she was legally able to do so, especially with the fortune she was now fully entitled to. Indeed, as far as my boss was concerned, the assignment was complete and that was it. Job well done, a pat on the back, and onto the next assignment...

But in the back of my head, there was this nagging little voice asking: “What if you were right, Frederique? What if Anabelle wasn't fine, and had never been? What if leaving her on her own was the worst mistake our agency could have possibly committed in regard to her continued safety, only because in the eyes of the law she is an adult now, and no longer our problem?"

However, as time passed and innumerable other cases paraded across my desk, every one of them as important and crucial as the next, my mind eventually moved on from Anabelle's case. Having never heard anything of her in five whole years, I basically assumed that things must have turned out fine for that poor albino girl. After all, no news is good news, isn't it?

And then I received that final notice from the bank — their last-ditch attempt at reaching her.

Questions upon questions began to pile up inside me. Did Anabelle never try to assume ownership of that account after turning eighteen? Why? Is she still living with her stepfather in St. Belaroix? Was she just not interested? But why wouldn't she be? And what about Mr. Marder? Did he not care about all that Gold either? As Anabelle's caretaker, he surely was entitled to a portion of it, wasn't he?

The more I thought about it, the more perplexed I became. Even if Mr. Marder had plotted some sort of foul play to reap all the benefits and leave her “poor, beloved child" with nothing, the fact remained that James Lenoir's billionaire inheritance still sat on hold for five years, just one signature away from release — a signature only Anabelle could provide.

Eventually, I made a decision. I would travel to St. Belaroix one more time to see what was going on. I wouldn't have peace of mind without at least knowing that I tried something. Besides, my regrets from the past had come back, and in full force. I feared that they would haunt me until I saw with my very own eyes that Anabelle was alright.

At first, my boss said that reopening that case was out of the question, and that the agency could no longer do anything about whatever was going on with that girl in any official capacity. That meant they wouldn't cover any unauthorized travel expenses, and even if I paid for them out of pocket, acting on my own in matters that fall well outside the agency's sphere of competence could have terrible legal ramifications for everyone involved, himself included.

Still, I insisted, and was promptly told that I was being emotional, that “shit happens," and that I needed to put my priorities in order. But I didn't relent. I asserted myself as politely as I could, making sure not to raise my voice, focusing only on laying my convictions bare as earnestly as I could. “I need to see that I didn't commit a horrible mistake," I pleaded.

At last, my boss sighed and said: “You are too stressed, Fred. Tell you what, I'm going to give you the rest of the week off and a travel ticket to anywhere in Galia, plus a return ticket — all paid, of course. I'm leaving the destination blank for you to fill in, though. So try to go somewhere relaxing, okay? And stay out of trouble."

No more words needed to be said. I quietly thanked him, took the forms he gave me, and left.

Later that day, after packing up a couple changes of clothes, I kissed my wife and kids good-bye and headed to Roud's Carriage Station, boarding pass in hand. The travel itself was uneventful. Just eight hours of sitting in a horse-drawn carriage with three other passengers, reading a book to pass the time. We reached our destination at around 11:00 PM. Since it was so late, I just went straight to the local inn to spend the rest of the night.

The next morning, I rented a horse and went on my way towards Anabelle's home. Along the way, I took in the provincial sights of the town and its people. Even though it had been five years since the last time I had set foot there, not much seemed to have changed in St. Belaroix. The bumpy dirt roads were still there, traveled by carts drawn by donkeys, as were the small houses flanking them. The rundown church in the center of the village was still there too, as though frozen in time.

As I approached the Lenoir estate, I immediately noticed something odd. It... just wasn't there, where it should have been. Since it was one of the few two-story houses in the village, surrounded on all sides by a rather extensive lawn, it could easily be seen from a distance. But that didn't seem to be the case anymore. The closer I got, the more confused I was. Had I somehow taken a wrong turn somewhere?

Eventually, I stopped at what I was sure was the correct address, and dismounted. In front of me was the waist-high wooden fence that separated Mr. Marder's lawn from the road, just as I remembered it. Still no trace of the actual estate that I could see. The lawn was considerably overgrown too, with grass and weeds that went up to my knees. Clearly, no one had mowed it in years...

Puzzled beyond belief, I tied the horse to a post, then approached the entrance and noticed their mailbox. It was overflowing with unopened letters from the Bank of Roud. I suppose the mailman just dropped them in there as they came, not caring that there didn't seem to be a house at that address anymore.

Finally, I climbed over the fence and waded my way forward through the tall grass. In hindsight, I was lucky not to have stepped on a snake or something. So badly I wanted to know what had happened to the Lenoir estate, that I hadn't even considered how reckless I was being.

Moments later, I stood before the house I was looking for. Or, rather, what little was left of it. Indeed, in front of my bewildered eyes lay the charred remains of what once was Anabelle's home, half-claimed by the overgrown weeds. It seemed quite clear that it had burned to the ground a long time ago. “My God, how did this happen?" I had muttered to myself.

After a few moments, I returned to where I had left my horse, then headed towards the nearest neighboring house, about a hundred yards down the road. The man who lived there, a local farmer, graciously invited me to a cup of tea and told me everything he knew.

“Yeah, that big, fancy house burned down five years ago, on September of 1151," he said. “I remember it was nighttime when it happened. The fire was so huge, it lit up the whole sky a bright, hellish red. You could see it pretty much from anywhere in the village."

“I could imagine. It was such a sizable estate."

“A real tragedy, is what it was," he continued after taking a sip of his tea. “I mean, poor Mr. Marder. He didn't deserve to go like that. No man does."

“Oh, so he perished in the fire..."

“That he did. And he was so young too. Only thirty years old, I tell you. Still had his whole life ahead of him, the poor guy," lamented the man, shaking his head. “May he rest in peace."

“You seem to think fondly of him," I observed.

“Why wouldn't I? He was a good, god-fearing lad, and a true gentleman. Always had a smile on his face. Some say he liked to drink and gamble, but I don't believe it. I think the people who say that just resented his good looks and pleasant disposition. I wouldn't be surprised if one of them set his house on fire out of sheer jealousy or something."

“So you believe someone might have done it on purpose," I commented before taking a sip myself.

“Like I said, I wouldn't be surprised. I mean, God knows there are far too many rotten apples in this world."

I nodded quietly, and then I asked:

“What about Anabelle?"

“...Who?"

“Anabelle, the little girl who lived with him?"

The farmer looked at me oddly.

“I... don't think I've ever heard of this girl you're telling me about," he said. “I'm pretty sure Mr. Marder lived all by himself in that house. Well, there was his wife too, but she passed away ten— no, wait, fifteen years ago..."

“You're telling me you don't recall ever seeing a little albino girl living in that house?"

“A-albino?" he gasped, hastily performing the sign of the cross gesture with his right hand. “Trust me, I would definitely remember something like that..."

I was a little taken aback by his reaction, but pressed on:

“Are you sure? Her full name was Anabelle Sophie, and—"

“Sophie! That was Mr. Marder's late wife's name!" he suddenly exclaimed, snapping his fingers as though he had just puzzled out a grand mystery. “There we go! You must have been confused because she was so pale, but that poor woman was no albino, thank God!"

“N-no, I... Ah, never mind," I finally said, no longer seeing a point in continuing that conversation. “Well, I'm afraid I must go now. Thank you for your time, and for the tea. It's very much appreciated."

“Oh, it was nothing! It's not every day that we get visitors from the big city, you know? Hope you enjoy the rest of your stay!"

So I leisurely rode my rented horse away from there, thinking about the things I had seen and heard. 'That house burned down five years ago, Mr. Marder is dead, and apparently no one knew Anabelle even existed. And it seems like albino folk aren't held in high regard around here either,' I ruminated as my slothful steed slowly carried me.

That's right. I had forgotten that albino people are still considered demonic in the more rural parts of Galia. 'Hmm, could it be that Mr. Marder had kept Anabelle hidden since birth to protect her from the misery that probably awaited her in the outside world? Or was it because he was ashamed of her himself? And what happened with that poor girl in the first place? Did she meet with the same horrific fate as her stepfather?'

Eventually, I decided that my next stop would be the local police station. Surely they'd have more answers for me, I thought. Well... I must say, my first impression of that place upon arriving wasn't exactly the best.

To elaborate, I had seen condemned buildings in better state than St. Belaroix's police station. It was hot, stuffy, full of dilapidated walls that were patched up poorly (if at all), missing far too many floor tiles everywhere, inadequately furnished with old, worn out desks haphazardly overflowing with hundreds of coffee-stained paper stacks, and the list goes on and on...

“Ah, don't mind the mess," said the chief of police, sitting back on his chair, feet resting on his desk. “It's just that our cleaning lady quit last week, and all because she didn't appreciate a little friendly groping. Like, come on. It's not the end of the world! But that's just women for you, right? Always blowing the tiniest things out of proportion."

I was flabbergasted. Truly shocked speechless.

“Anyway, what can I do for you?" he asked, never bothering to take his feet off the desk.

“I, uh— Y-yes, my name is Frederique DuPont, and I'm an inspector from Roud City's C.P.S. agency, although at this time I'm not here in any official capacity. Still, I'm trying to piece together what happened to a girl from a case I was in charge of from 1141 to 1151. So... if it isn't too much trouble, I would really appreciate it if you could help me with that."

“Sure thing!" he said while scratching his very prominent gut, part of which was showing between the terminally strained buttons of his shirt. “I wasn't busy anyway, so why not? What do you need to know, Mr. DuPont?"

“Alright, so... Are you familiar with the name 'Marc Marder'?" I began.

“Oh, you bet I am! He was a regular at the tavern back in the day. He went there almost every night after work for a beer or two," the chief explained. “Marc was a decent guy. Very polite and well-mannered, smart, with matching good looks and a way with words, not to mention an accountant's degree from Roud's University. It's no wonder women practically threw themselves at his feet all the time! Then again, the man was a real Casanova too, always breaking hearts left and right."

“But then he got married to one Sophie Lenoir, didn't he?"

“Oh, yes, he did!" nodded the slovenly chief of police. “Pretty much everyone in town was after that pair of legs, you know? I mean, yeah, she had some sort of lung condition, and her health wasn't great, but she was loaded! You just don't turn your back to once-in-a-lifetime chances like that! Hell, I tried courting her myself too, but once Marc threw his hat in the ring, it was just over for the rest of us."

“Would you say Mr. Marder was only interested in Miss Lenoir's fortune?" I asked.

“Eh, I couldn't fault him for it if he was. Women just can't be trusted with money anyway. They need a man at their side to prevent them from blowing it all on stupid shit like fancy bags and shoes and dresses, you know?"

Again, I was struck speechless. How could this man be in charge of St. Belaroix's police station?

“So, yeah, Marc married her," he continued. “That was the end of his bachelor adventures around town, but men like him can never be satisfied with sleeping on the same bed every night, with the same woman at their side."

“A-are you implying Mr. Marder wasn't faithful to his wife?"

“Oh, he was faithful. After all, prostitutes don't count," he nonchalantly affirmed.

“I... I'm sorry?"

“Yeah, harlots aren't really people. You see, they're just mindless meat holes you rent for a night, then forget all about. It's not much more than a simple business transaction. That's why they don't count. Good thing too, since it makes being faithful to your wife so much easier. Well, as long as she doesn't find out, I mean!" he said before letting out a coarse belly laugh, clearly far too pleased with the appalling garbage spewing from his mouth.

“Y-yes, well, uh..." I stuttered, scrambling inwardly to get our conversation back on track while also fighting the urge to just leave. “T-the reason I brought up Mr. Marder is that he was the caretaker of the girl I mentioned before."

“Huh? He was in charge of a girl?"

“Yes. Her name was Anabelle Sophie Marder, and she was Mr. Marder's stepdaughter. The two of them lived together in the Lenoir estate for nearly two decades. I know this for a fact, since I visited them both on a monthly basis for ten years, until she turned eighteen years old, as per my assignment."

“Well..." said the chief. “I don't know what to tell you, Mr. DuPont. I sure don't remember Marc ever mentioning anything about a stepdaughter. No, wait... Ah, yes, I remember now: Miss Lenoir was pregnant with a child from her previous marriage. Then her husband went to war, he died there, Marc married her, and some time later she had a miscarriage. Or at least that's what we heard..."

“There was no such miscarriage," I firmly said, more determined than ever to get to the bottom of that mystery once and for all. “Miss Lenoir gave birth to a healthy baby girl. But now I'm beginning to suspect Mr. Marder might have kept her concealed from the rest of the world ever since she was born... and all because of her albinism."

“Oh," said the chief as his face visibly scrunched up into a cringing expression. “So that child was one of those albino wretches, huh... Yeah, that'd do it. After all, everyone knows their freakish red eyes are the mark of the devil. Although I'm guessing the mother got overly emotional and refused to let go of her demon-spawn baby, so Marc had no choice but to keep that godless abomination around instead of, y'know, dropping it at the church's doorstep or something."

For the third time in a row, I just stared at him, wordlessly gaping in utter disbelief.

“H-how on God's Earth can an officer of the law say something so horrible about an innocent girl??" I eventually exclaimed, unable to keep my mouth shut any longer. “Albinism isn't a sin, for crying out loud!"

“Well, I don't know about that, but what I do know is that it just ain't natural," he stated matter-of-factly as he lazily probed his nostrils with a greasy finger. “Ah, I'm afraid we'll have to agree to disagree on this one, Mr. DuPont. I wouldn't expect someone from the big city to understand it, and that's okay."

“But—"

“At any rate, that girl is most likely dead anyway. There's no point in wasting our breath arguing about her. I mean, one look at the ruins of their home, and you just know no one could have survived that."

“One look? Was that the extent of your investigation??" I angrily exclaimed.

“Oh, of course not!" he said, still leaning back casually on his chair. “I take my job very seriously, Mr. DuPont. Well, most of the time. Or when I feel like it. But the point is, we did have a team searching the rubble for clues and whatnot."

“Is that so? What did they find, then?" I demanded.

“Nothing much, really. Just a couple ribs and little else — all charred, of course. Still, it was enough to declare poor Marc dead. And before you ask, no, we have no idea what caused the fire. I don't think we'll ever know either."

“And I don't suppose your team found anything compatible with an eighteen-year-old female?"

“Nope, nothing. Then again, it's not like we were looking for anyone else's remains over there. Remember that I'm just now learning this girl Anabelle even existed," said the chief as he scratched his voluminous belly again. “I don't know... I mean, we're talking about like a hundred metric tons of blazing debris collapsing on two people. It's a miracle we managed to find anything at all!"

“What if— What if she survived?" I tried. “What if Anabelle managed to escape with her life before the house collapsed?"

“Then we'd have gotten several reports of an albino girl wandering around the streets. But since we haven't gotten any, I can only think that she died in the fire, just like Marc," he replied, and then added mysteriously: “Unless..."

“...Unless?"

“Unless she did escape the burning house, and then ran in a daze towards the woods or something. But if that's what happened, then there's not a chance she might have survived even a single night in that cursed place."

“Cursed? What do you mean?" I asked, cocking an eyebrow.

“Here, take a look at this," he said, pulling a binder from somewhere under the desk and dropping it in front of me.

“Uh..."

I gingerly took the binder, wondering what that man was getting at, and began to thumb through the sheets of paper inside. They seemed to feature a list of about two dozen names, complete with ages, descriptions, a short bio, and accompanying graphite sketches of what I assumed to be those people's faces in front and profile.

“Notice any patterns, Mr. DuPont?" the chief eventually said.

“They're all women."

“What else?"

“Well..." I began, thumbing through the folios again and skimming through some of the many notes. “From what I'm seeing, it seems like all of them are single. Most had fallen on hard times, and a good portion of them have no known family. I've also noticed that their ages are mostly in the eighteen to late twenties range."

“Yep," he nodded. “And although there's no way to prove it, I'm pretty sure all of them were virgins too."

“...W-what is this list? Who are all these women?" I asked, realizing that Anabelle appeared to fit the criteria for whatever this was.

“That's all the village women reported missing in the last thirty years."

“M-missing?"

“Yeah. It seems like once a year, a young, marginalized woman with little in the way of family or friends just up and vanishes without a trace, never to be seen again. It's almost like clockwork. In fact, if you check the dates here..." said the chief as he tapped a finger on a certain part of the notes, “...you'll notice that they were all last seen on the same month, but of different years."

Intrigued, I promptly took a closer look at some of those dates:

...

Foucault, Angelique - Last seen: Sept. 12, 1149.

Hyacinth, Eva A. - Last seen: Sept. 28, 1150.

Rouvière, Elise - Last seen: Sept. 6, 1152.

Belle, Sandy - Last seen: Sept. 19, 1153.

...

“It— It's always on September!" I exclaimed, and then it hit me: “The Lenoir estate burned down on September of 1151 — a-and there's no one listed here for that year!"

The chief nodded pointedly. “I guess we now might have a name to put in that spot," he said.

“B-but none of these women are confirmed dead, are they? That means Anabelle could still—"

“Forget about it, Mr. DuPont," he drily said, interrupting me. “If your albino girl truly belongs on that list, then it's likely she suffered a fate even worse than just burning to a crisp in a house fire. And it's the same with the others too. Only God knows how horrifically gruesome their ultimate fates were."

“W-what are you talking about?"

“Check the second-to-last line in the notes and you'll understand."

So I checked that line. It stated that a little over half of the women in the list were last seen near or around the southern border of the village."

“I... still don't understand," I said.

“Don't you know? Beyond the southern border lies... the forest of Lanea."

“...Yes? What about it?"

He let out an annoyed sigh, shaking his head and clicking his tongue as though he was very disappointed in me.

“So you really don't know..." he said. “Ah, well, I suppose that was to be expected from someone who has never lived here. I should have known that an outsider like you wouldn't be aware of the unspeakable evil that lurks in that forest, Mr. DuPont. My bad."

“Just get to the point already! Jesus Christ!" I exclaimed, throwing my hands up in exasperation.

“Werewolves."

“E—excuse me?"

“Werewolves. They stalk around the woods at night, prowling in the shadows and always, always watching."

“Y-yes, I know what werewolves are! I've read horror novels too! What I mean is—"

“Novels? Who's talking about novels? These werewolves are very much real, Mr. DuPont. I'll concede that sightings are rare, but we do get reports from time to time. In fact, my very own father once saw one of them from afar many years ago, before I was even born. It was dark, so all he could make out was a shape he described as that of 'a very large wolf on two legs and glowing yellow eyes.' It was there only for a moment, and then it was gone, but the memory of its soul-piercing stare still haunted him in his dreams for the rest of his life."

“Uh..." I uttered, unable to form even a single word.

“You don't believe me? That's quite alright. Many didn't believe my father either, but the bone-chilling terror that ran through his veins was very real."

“I— I'm sure your father saw something, but... W-what are you saying anyway? In regard to the missing women, I mean."

“The werewolves abducted them all, obviously. I suspect they have ways to enthrall their victims from a distance and make them walk mindlessly into the woods. Then, once one of those poor girls falls into their unholy clutches, they all rape her together into oblivion, tearing her apart and feasting on her flesh once they're done. And — as if that wasn't bad enough — it seems that those sadistic bastards have a preference for young, virginal maidens. It's what those profiles suggest," he said, pointing at the binder still in my hands. “I mean, God knows I'm no saint myself, but even I find it all absolutely appalling."

“I... I'm sorry, but I just don't think I can accept that explanation as true," I said, closing the binder and handing it back to him. “This is likely the work of a psychopathic serial murderer hidden in plain sight under the guise of a perfectly normal villager. I'd suggest refocusing your investigative efforts bearing that in mind. As for me, I believe I'm done here. If you'd excuse me, I'll be taking my leave."

“Hah... As if we hadn't exhausted every other theory like a hundred times over..." he quietly muttered to himself, although not quietly enough for me not to hear it. “Very well, Mr. DuPont. You are certainly free to believe what you want. Regardless, I sincerely hope you're leaving with a few more answers than you had coming in. If nothing else, it was a good talk. I mean, we can at least agree on that, right?"

“Uh... Sure..."

“Ah, wait! Before you go, I think I might have something for you."

“Huh?"

“It will be just a moment, I promise!"

Then he actually stood up, although I could tell that he had some trouble lifting all that bulk off the seat of his chair. “Hmm, where is it... Where is it..." he whispered as he quickly opened and closed various drawers from a cabinet near the back wall. “Ah-ha! Here it is!"

He then turned to me and deposited an item in my hands. It was a small, battered safe that had clearly seen better days. The initials 'S.L.' were engraved just above the lid.

“What is this?" I asked.

“Our team found that in the rubble of the Lenoir estate. Based on those initials, we believe it belonged to Miss Sophie."

“I see... And what's inside?"

“Ain't that the million Gold question!" he said with a chuckle. “We tried to pry it open a number of times to no avail. It's top-of-the-line cast iron; able to withstand an entire burning house collapsing on it! So, without the combination, I'm afraid there's no unlocking it. But you can have it if you want."

“Y-you're just giving this to me?"

“Well, you're the first person to show this much interest in the mystery behind that tragic house fire in years, so I figure it will be in better hands with you. Besides, no one's ever claimed it, and I doubt anyone ever will. As far as I'm concerned, it's just an old piece of junk that's been collecting dust in that drawer for far longer than it should have."

“Uh... Alright..." I said, somewhat confounded. “I... suppose I'm taking this with me, then."

Thus, I left that half-decayed police station with Miss Marder's safe in my hands. As for what happened afterwards, well... I believe I'm going to leave that for the next chapter.

It's late, and I need some sleep.

To be continued...