Will Graham is dragged back into the force by the firm hand of Jack Crawford.
While The Dragon hunts in the shadows, waiting for the next moon.
Hannibal Lecter abides patiently within the walls of his cell to begin the games once more with the cro...
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The Leeds' house was still a dark, taunting nightmare that lingered over the darkening streets of Buffalo as the sun began to set. Will looked up at it once more, twitching fingers reaching for a Panadol or two. The front door was the same, as was the gloomy hallway and nicely furnished leather couches.
The garage was the nicest part of the house, filled with three boats, a set of fixing supplies and a cupboard full of paint. Mr Leeds was the handy-man type, the kind (despite his wealth) preferred to clean and fix his own possessions.
Charles Leeds, from the whispers in the walls, told him he was a loving husband and a caring father. The kind that would race out of bed to save the children with a cut throat, he bore a heart of fiery warmth. The kind that was distinguished with a heavy huff, as he was not the kind of man to face the dying light with a sense of peaceful solemnity.
Will hunted through the house, stalking the hallways with the dragon-monster at his heels. Charles Leeds was all throughout the house, his beating heart laid in the kitchen as he cooked Christmas dinner with his wife, it was in the garden when he pushed his daughter on the swing, it breathed in his room where he lived and loved his wife. There was more wealth and opulence in his bedroom than anywhere else in the house, with a large bed made up of pretty pressed Egyptian silk and cotton. Will, himself, who barely had the money to afford a new boat motor seethed at the decadence this man had lived in. His heart was a vying beast, a green man that thrived in the truths of the wealthy that he could never afford. There was a Volkswagen in the garage too, he had briefly seen it, a polished purple vintage van that rested under the flickering lights.
Who was he? A successful tax attorney? Will shook his head. That was not why the monster had crept into their home under the moonlit sky. No, he thought aggressively, it was the wife.
It was her. In all her pale perfect flesh and bright golden eyes, the kind that laughed and smiled as if everyday was the best — a delight. Her hair was pretty too, long elegant locks of ebony that spilled forth past her shoulders to her waist. She was the kind of woman you expected to see on the runway, covered with expensive fabrics and clicking heels, with long pale legs exposed to the public. It was Mrs Leeds. She was the one.
Will reached for the golden curled doorknobs, pulling on them with a slight huff. They were heavy and old, the kind that had been purchased from a vintage store, brightly Thyra styled doors. The room was yellow, with cupboards filled with heels, sneakers, and winter boots. Most, he assumed, belonged to the wife. It was a mess, the soft white carpet covered in clothes. His pale hands reached for a leather-bound book that rested near the door. It was a diary. He flicked through the pages, admiring the black ink-spotted elegance, cursive with a hundred thousand loops and twists. It was as pretty as Mrs Leeds had once been.
December 23rd, Tuesday, Mama's House. The children are still asleep. When Mama glasses in the sun porch, I hated the way it changed the looks of the house but it's very pleasant and I can sit here warm looking out at the snow. How many more Christmases can she manage a houseful of grandchildren? A lot. I hope.
