Burnt Blood: The Werewolf Within

Twenty Five

Staring at the flayed pig, its organs spewing across the carpeted floor, my stomach churned. I don't know how butchers do it, day in and day out. I'd much rather see the cooked version. Feeling the claws retreat and my heart ease, I was more like myself. The mess on the table could easily have been Skip I'm staring at or Charlie.

Meanwhile, the latter seems to be a mystery. It didn't sound as though Skip knew either—working around the room, picturing where each of us sat last—replaying right until Skip had his face in his hands before the phone rang.

The strange interactions between Skip and Charlie made me believe something else was missing from the story. A truth that thing was referring to, maybe? The pig aside, there was nothing else on the table. I knew where the box was, and I still needed to digest how that got into my car. It must've been Charlie; I don't know how, but why do that?

The folder was missing; Skip had left it on the table when he left, and I'd gone shortly after. I thought about the side cabinet where he retrieved the old whiskey and the folder. It's rude of me to contemplate sifting through someone else's stuff, but I didn't see any other way. Aware Skip may come home at any moment, I went to the cabinet doors, glancing at the doorway out of paranoia.

With the cupboard open, there was plenty to drink, and it sure looked appealing, but there was no folder, leaving me frustrated at the lack of answers. I didn't want to get caught, so I had to get a move on. There was no choice; I had to invade his privacy quickly. If he came home, everything would be fair game; I would say I found the house insecure, which I did.

'What's the matter, Georgina?' I jump in surprise at Chris again. I might get used to it, but while I'm creeping around in Skip's home looking at the 'bloodied message' and worried about him coming home, it feels like I'm treading on razor blades. It wouldn't be so bad if he appeared in front; I would still jump at first, but at least it would be less frightening. Like watching a horror movie, the TV is in front of me, and I know something will happen; when it does, I still jump, but it's okay.

"What the hell now?"

'I could ask you the same. I leave you alone for a minute, and Porky has paid a visit,' Chris's comment caused a slight smile to creep on my face—a much-needed moment. But that's Chris; he had a sense of humour that could find the funny in anything.

"Yeah, that's the least of it. A message on the wall,"

'Are you ready? For the truth? Whatever that may be,'

"I'm not ready for any of it, but I need to know. The same that I need to know who killed you and Lewis."

'Oh, he's gone too?'

"Yeah, a body in the Thames,"

'It sounds like body bingo at the minute; I'm curious whose number is next. How sure are you it's him?'

"I'm not. But it has Lewis's actual collar number; the Lewis that caught me at your crime scene was wearing the numbers of a retiree. Still wondering which one is the real deal,

'Beats me. I'm dead, remember? But trust your gut... I'm relying on you,'

If I trust my gut, I will tear the house apart, looking for clues to link the stories, the past, and me. Now that the folder's gone or at least hidden somewhere else safe. He may have more if he has one folder from all those years ago. It's a game. I call it 'show and tell' when a friend is greedy but too tight to chip in for the beers.

They ask if you have any alcohol; you do but don't want to share the good stuff, so you get the obvious cheap stuff, making sure your friend sees it. Now, Skip showed me a little of something to tell me what I needed to hear—producing from his obvious place without revealing Aladdin's cave. It's sneaky bastard stuff, but effective.