Mrs. Smithy did not strike me as the conversationalist, but she hollered over her shoulder when she was not muttering to herself. She had a very husky tone, which reminded me that of a chain smoker's voice, and she laughed like the purple octopus lady from that cartoon movie with the mermaid in it. She had various decorations through the house, and it was very apparent that she lived alone.

What staggered me was the crossbow that hung on the wall.

She assured me it was just for display.

She noted that the safety was on and that there was no bolt nearby. She was a skinny old thing that withered like a leaf that had just experienced the autumn season, and the way she walked made me think of my late mother.

Mrs. Smithy re-assorted knickknacks as we passed by. She would adjust a lamp screen, picking up a painted figurine, and placing it into another table. The older woman seemed to walk without intent, but knew where she was going as it was her abode. She never strayed for too long before moving onward to the next object. If there was a rug curled up, she smoothed it out with her slippered feet rather than bend down and pat it out. If something was too tall for her to reach, I offered to assist, but she seemed to ignore my suggestion and continued with fiddling with her decorations.

Sometimes I wondered if she had forgotten that I was there, but then she would address me with some of the queerest questions and would reply with something snarky, inappropriate, or just downright sarcastic. She also seemed to believe that her jokes were hilarious because she laughed at the end of every punchline.

"You want a lavender lemonade?"

"Er… no, thank you, ma'am."

"Good. Because I ain't got any. HA!"

"What do you think of bats?"

"Pardon…?"

"You know. Bats. The ones with the wings, not the one that Babe Ruth used to swing, HAHA."

"Erm… I haven't experienced one yet, so I couldn't tell you."

"Nasty little leeches if you ask me," she says.

"How about wolves?"

"... Dangerous." I suggested after contemplation.

"Good."

And the conversation would drop sporadically before another began until we reached the kitchen table.

There was no placement of silverware or plates, but there was an old patterned cloth draped over the surface. Before sitting, the older woman picks up one something from one of the stand-alone cabinets and holds it in her hand. Here, I noticed she was missing a nub on one of her pinky fingers, just before the bend at the knuckle.

She seems to have forgotten about it, so I say nothing to address it, though I can see old scratch marks that make me curious. They remind me of animal marks, but I am too far away to get a good grasp of what type of entities she had encountered. She still wore her wedding band on the finger next to it, signifying her loyalty to her widower, or maybe she just liked how it looked on her finger.

I keep my pen and memo pad in hand before we finally begin with the conversation.

"You gonna ask me what I was doing on the night of the disappearance of Mattia Church?"

I nod, but I keep my surprise in check the best I can muster.

"Where were you?"

"Here."

"Any witnesses that can vouch for you?"

"No."

"All right… what were you doing then?"

"I was watching."

"Watching?"

"I spy on my neighbors."

She said it so calmly.

It was as if that was the thing little old ladies with crossbows on their walls did on a Sunday afternoon, as opposed to mastering their snickerdoodle recipes. I hesitated before jotting notes down.

"Can you… elaborate?"

"I grab my binoculars and check on the neighborhood as if I were birdwatching. You can see I can't walk very far and I'm not much of a conversationalist - you needn't try to kiss up to me boy, I know how irritable I can be. I also know my laws; the neighbors can complain and call an attorney, but at the end of the day, I'm not audibly listening to their conversations, nor am I videotaping the scene or whatever you 'kids' call it these days. People can take photos of each other across the street, and the court will rule it as evidence. I'm not an enabler; it's just a hobby. People find it creepy when they find out, and I've been to court several times, but they can never peg me because I'm not doing anything illegal."

She paused for a breath. There was a lot I needed to unpack with that statement, but I instead jot down the critical factors.

"I find people and animals interesting when they're at their most relaxed state. I keep my eyes on the streets, watching cats fight each other for territory, watching rollerbladers fall on their ass, seeing joggers pass by. If I find something boring like nudity, I just move on. I already know what all the parts of the bodies there are. Whether you're male, female, and, in between or other, I need not study biology anymore. I can tell you about bones you never knew existed."

I choke on my spit here, but I try to stifle the coughing as if not to distract her.

"... Anyway, what I found interesting was two nights ago a car was sitting idly across the street that entire week."

I looked up to her immediately, "You didn't bother to report it?"

She shrugged. "Some people live in their cars, some teens just want to get it on, who am I to judge? I guess that was my error. Anyway, it was an old Camy, don't know what year, but it was green and picking up dirt. It was two houses away from mine."

Whatever was in her hand, she rolled it in the palms of her hands.

"And you saw it pick up Miss Church?"

"Nope."

"Then how do you suppose there is a correlation Mrs. Smithy?"

I felt my brow raise to the edge of my skull.

"They stopped showing up when the Church girl disappeared. Like right after. They didn't even make it discreet."

"That is rather odd. I'll make a note of it. Anything else?"

"Yep. Two folks were wearing fedoras. I couldn't get a good look on their faces. A trench coat and sunglasses covered them. The glass was pretty tinted, too, almost illegally tinted."

"Almost?"

"It's not like I walked up to the car and examined it myself, you know? But I still struggled to see anything inside. I'd never seen it before, so I was curious."

"Very well. Can you think of anything else of note?"

"Nope."

I pull out one of my business cards and hand it to her.

"Well, ma'am, if you can think of anything else, please contact me. I'll be letting myself out then."

"Don't let the door hit you on the way out."

After leaving the place, I realized that I never figured out what Mrs. Smithy was holding within her hands, but I decided against going back in. She made it clear she was not one to socialize about herself.

Instead, I did my route through the entire cul-de-sac before heading back to the cruiser. Some neighbors mentioned a Ford Camry fitting Mrs. Smithy's description, and others said they could not help me or that they did not remember. A few of the housewives asked me what a Ford was while other neighbors tried to tell me over the years, though they were hardly consistent enough to make notes.

This much, I knew: A green Ford Camry was sitting idly during the week of Miss Church's disappearance.

There were other missing reports of individuals in a similar situation as Miss Church; they were without families or lived on their own and abducted within ten days of each other. No relation between the individuals other than being devout followers of various churches that have taken them in. Their ages, sexes, and occupations were vastly different, and they bore multiple names, so this was not an alphabetical hunt.

When my cruiser kicked into gear, the radio was at the cusp of finishing, "Hallelujah," which did not match my current mood.

There was nothing hallelujah about missing individuals without consistent evidence to follow. Criminals were becoming more and more crafty as society continues to build its technology, which, as a chief, is bothersome. I could only hope for the sake of these people they were still alive for me to save them in time.

It was roughly seven in the evening before I decided to clock out of work and head back home to my daughter, who was studying a book she already read.

We made small talk before I popped in some frozen dinner and called it a night. At least when people dream, they can work out whatever is troubling them. But all I saw in my mind's eye was a dull, dragging darkness before being abruptly woken up by something shaking my body.

At first, I thought maybe something spooked my girl, but when I rolled to consciousness, a face I did not recognize met my gaze.

I went for the pocketknife in my nightstand, but like a blur, his hand caught mine. He tutted his finger, and I felt compelled to oblige. He released his grip, and I seized my hand, cradling it against my other hand. His fingers were as hot as a fireplace's poker after stabbing some logs to keep the fire going, and his brown eyes seemed to reflect with no light. It took me a few minutes to realize that he was hissing something to me since I was still half asleep.

"Huh?"

"You need to stop investigating."

"S'cuse me?"

I hurled out an audible yawn, and he hissed at me to be quiet.

"Just heed my warning tool!"

"I don't understand - " but before I could finish my sentence, I was alone in my cold, damp room that smelled of pine.

The occurrence did not strike me as odd through the middle of the night.

Once dawn hit, I questioned whether I had dreamt anything at all.

Isabella was fast asleep, and I made some good old eggs and bacon. I decided to be a little "extra," as the kids call it, and poach the eggs. There are so many ways you can cook an egg. I played the tube sweet and low, not to disturb my teenager and check the forecast. Upon hearing that it would snow, I made a mental note to add some chains to her pickup truck to prevent an accident from occurring. Better to be safe than sorry.

I knew how reckless teens in this town could be on the slippery roads, and damn it all if I did nothing about it.

When I finished up with breakfast, I shut off the television, suited up for the weather, and went to work on the truck before leaving in the cruiser.

All the while, I could not help but think about the dream that I may or may not have had the other night. It put such a nasty taste in my mouth that even the bacon could not savor. Was it a warning or a threat? I wondered if I should put some security up in the house, but that was a little above my paygrade. I was financially tight at the moment, taking care of two in a compact home my parents donated on my wedding day. I solemnly imagined my parents meeting Bella in the delivery room with an exhausted Renee proudly beaming over our beautiful daughter. I pushed the imagery away as I pulled up to the office to start the day as per usual.