The Lancaster Murderer

Wetlands Cabin, 12:30 PM

EPISODE XV.

The night we learned of Chief Dumois's unseemly dealings, Izayah and I discussed our next plan of action for hours. In the end, we decided that Declan should chose to come home if he wants to – without revealing our evidence of his father's continual comatose state. We also decided that we were going to have to start taking some risks. We can't trust the police to do their job, so we have to do it for them, and that means putting a tail on Dumois. When it became clear that we had exhausted our minds, we made a midnight snack and sat together in silence, hands laced together, heads leaning on one another.

The next day, Izayah convinced me to let Valeria in on the plan. I made the connection between Peter's arrival and Sara's death, which omitted him from our intel. But Izayah has been allowing things to run my way so far, and I don't want to snuff out his ideas. Even if it means dealing with the tiger-eyed hurricane.

While she was here, we kept the demonstrative displays of affection to a minimum, though we clearly established our relationship without the need of words. The fury was rolling off Valeria in waves, but I ignored it. I have nothing to be upset about.

In the end, Valeria agreed to be Dumois's on-call shadow, waiting on standby for the moment something came up for us and we couldn't fulfill the role, ourselves. I invited her to stay for lunch or dinner, which she grudgingly accepted. In the evening, Izayah's bedframe came in the form of a bulky package on our doorstep. She stayed to help assemble it in his room, keeping my attempts at conversations short and bitter. It was only right after we stepped back and observed the makings of an actual bed that Valeria volunteered anything of her own thoughts. Dismally, she had said, I guess he really is staying, then. With a gloomy cloud overhead, she left the apartment.

That night, Declan gave me a call. He'd stay an extra few days with his mother more out of mental recuperation than necessity, but thanked me for being there for him.

The next day, I received a call from Lucas – he was still staying at his grandfather's cabin and he urgently needed me. He wouldn't say what the emergency was, but assured me I was the only one who could aid him in this "mortally troubling time of need." He said he sent an Uber to my apartment, and to decline it would be "awfully distasteful" of me.

I told Izayah I didn't think it was truly a life-or-death situation, given how theatrical Luca sounded, but it would be better to show up just in case. "Yeah," Izayah sardonically snipped. "Someone's got him at gunpoint forcing him to recite Shakespeare."

Nevertheless, Izayah and Valeria teamed up to watch Dumois while I headed to Lucas's.

When I arrive, there are recent tracks in the gravel of the cabin's driveway, made by a heavy vehicle. Torn between caution and worry that something real is going on, I hurry my steps and cast furtive glances into the woods. Though the day is picturesque – sunny, cloudless, just breezy enough – it doesn't escape my mind that most victims fell prey to the killer in this exact weather.

The closer I get to the cabin's entryway, the more I remember the icy air invading my body in the vault; the shuddering of my forehead against the outdoor refrigerator; passing out on the way to safety.

The front door opens and I jump. I expect some fanged monster with poisonous drool to emerge from the lofty home, but am instead greeted by a preppily-dressed Lucas who seems well-composed aside from the panic in his eyes. Hurriedly, he waves me on.

"What's going on?" I snap. "If your crisis was a fashion crisis, I swear –"

"Shh!" Lucas urges. "He'll hear you."