The old man gestured at the birdwatcher's guide lying on the bench beside the man. "If you don't mind me asking, what species are you hoping to spot today?"

  The man with the binoculars glanced down at the book, its spine uncracked and pages pristine. He hadn't bothered to open it; he only needed it as a prop to blend in while observing the aftermath of his gruesome handiwork across the street.

  "Um, I'm not sure," he admitted, forcing a sheepish grin. "I'm new to bird watching and just trying to learn as I go."

  "Ah, I see! I remember those days." The old man's face softened as he leaned against his cane, looking lost in memories. "You know, I started bird watching back when I was just a lad. It's been a lifelong passion of mine. Since then, I've seen some remarkable birds—the elusive ivory-billed woodpecker, the vibrant resplendent quetzal, even the enigmatic snowy owl."

  The man grudgingly listened, each word from the old man feeling like a needle pricking at his patience. His gaze flickered between the man's wrinkled face and the graveyard beyond, aching to return his attention to the crime scene. But he knew he couldn't risk being anything but polite; arousing suspicion was not an option, not here.

  "That reminds me," the old man continued, his eyes sparkling with amusement as he recalled an incident from years ago. "There was this one time I was out looking for a black rosy-finch, and I spotted one right at the top of a tall fir tree."

  He laughed, his voice shaking with age and mirth. "Well, I was so excited that I didn't notice I'd backed myself up into a thicket of blackberry bushes! The more I struggled to get free, the more entangled I became."

  The man clenched his jaw, feeling his last shred of patience snap. The old man's laughter grated on his nerves, and he could no longer bear listening to the endless chatter. He interrupted just as the story neared its punchline, his voice cold and firm.

  "Look, I came here for some quiet time, not to listen to stories from a stranger. I'm sure you have plenty of interesting tales, but I'd rather be left alone, if you don't mind."

  The old man's laughter died abruptly, replaced by a hurt look in his pale blue eyes. He studied the other man for a moment, as if searching for any hint of remorse or kindness beneath the harsh exterior.

  "Wasn't trying to bother you," the old man said, sounding a bit offended. He seemed to study the man more closely than he had before, his eyes narrowing as if he suspected something wasn't quite right.

  "Bird watching, eh?" he murmured. "And what inspired you to give it a try, pray tell?"

  The man's face flushed with a mixture of guilt and anger. He could sense the old man becoming suspicious of him, and he knew he had to come up with some sort of explanation for why he was in the park. He tried to keep his voice calm as he replied.

  "Well...I had some free time and wanted to try something new." He forced himself to look away from the old man's gaze, pretending to be preoccupied by scanning the trees for birds. "I figured it would give me an opportunity to get out into nature more often."

  "A nature lover, are you? So it wouldn't have anything to do with the graveyard, would it?"

  At the mention of the graveyard, the man's pulse quickened. All it would take was for this old to shout to the police across the road, and they would come running. Even if the man was able to talk himself out of the situation (there certainly was no proof he'd been involved in the murders), they would see him—and that could cause problems later on.

  No, he needed to deal with this before anyone else got involved.

  I wish I could just hit him over the head with these binoculars, he thought. If only we were alone…

  Such a desperate plan, though, would only make things worse. Aside from the nearby police officers, there were a number of joggers and dog walkers in the park, all potential witnesses to his crime. The man forced a smile, hoping his face didn't betray his inner turmoil.

  "Of course not," he said, trying to sound nonchalant. "I just thought it would be a nice place to relax and enjoy the wildlife."

  The old man nodded slowly, still looking skeptical. The man with the binoculars could feel his heart pounding in his chest, wondering if he should make a run for it or try to talk his way out of it. Suddenly, the old man's face lit up with a clever, self-satisfied smile.

  "You know what? I have a friend across the street, Patrick Gibbons. Officer Patrick Gibbons. He's quite a bird enthusiast himself. I should introduce the two of you!"

  The man stared back, his mouth going dry. Was this old fart serious? Did he really know one of the police officers at the graveyard, or was he just pulling the man's chain?

  The man tensed, ready to spring. It was starting to look like he might have no choice except to run.

  "Come on," the old man said, a triumphant smile on his face as he gestured. "Don't be shy. Who knows what you two might have in common?"

  The man started to rise—not to follow the old man, but to bolt in the opposite direction. Just then, however, an old woman's voice reached them.

  "Harold!" She sounded concerned, her tone laced with worry. "We have to hurry if we're going to be home when Stacy brings the boys over!"

  "Okay, dear!" the old man, Harold replied automatically, still staring at the man. His smile began to fade, and at the same time, the man felt a surge of relief.

  Thank God for nagging wives, the man thought.

  The old man turned to go. After only a few steps, however, he turned back, scowling as he pointed a finger at the man. "You're a real creep, you know that?" he said. "I don't know what your deal is, but if I ever see you here again, I'm calling the cops. Got it?"

  The man stared back, saying nothing. Harold's wife called again, and Harold, like an obedient dog, shook his head in disgust and moved away.

  The man watched with relief as Harold retreated, joining an equally elderly woman who looped her arm through his. They walked slowly, their steps measured and cautious, until they disappeared around a bend in the park's path.

  Finally, alone, the man let out a deep breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the solitude that enveloped him like a comforting blanket. The quiet rustle of leaves above him, the distant murmur of the graveyard activity—these were the sounds he craved, not the prattle of strangers.

  He loved the silence, the way it seeped into his bones, calming the storm within him. It was in these moments of peace that he felt truly at ease, unburdened by the expectations of others. Alone, he was free to be himself, to indulge in his darkest desires without fear of judgment or retribution.

  With the old couple gone, the man raised the binoculars to his eyes once more, focusing on the flurry of activity in the graveyard. From this distance, he could see the reporters huddling together like vultures, their cameras pointed at the police officers as they worked diligently to unearth any clues that might lead them to the killer.

  "I should've recorded the whole thing," the man mused, his eyes scanning the scene. The thought intrigued him—the idea of capturing the terror that had filled the Hubbard family's eyes as they'd realized their fate, the desperation with which they'd pleaded for mercy. It would have been a beautiful, macabre masterpiece, one that he could watch over and over again, savoring each moment like a fine wine.

  But then he shook his head, dismissing the notion. As much as he craved the idea of immortalizing his work, he suspected that figuring out how to record the incident would have detracted from the experience, sacrificing the excitement of a moment that could never truly be relived, even if he watched it again through the eyes of a camera a thousand times.

  The man was still thinking about this when he spotted a reporter making a beeline for the park, microphone in hand and a determined expression on her face. She was no doubt looking to interview anyone nearby who might have information about the grisly discovery across the street. It was time for him to make his exit.

  Rising from the bench, the man slid the binoculars back into their case and tucked it under his arm. As he began to walk away, his hand found its way to his pocket, where it closed around a worn leather wallet. He retrieved it, flipping it open with practiced ease to reveal the driver's license nestled within.

  "Roy Hubbard," he read aloud, his voice barely above a whisper. A grim smile twisted his lips as he stared down at the man's photograph, recalling the way he had begged for his life before the man had snuffed it out. In that moment, the man felt a surge of satisfaction roil through him like a tidal wave, the knowledge that he had brought justice to those who deserved it.

  "Got what was coming to you," he muttered, snapping the wallet shut and tucking it back into his pocket.

  As he made his way out of the park, the man was warmed by the assurance deep in his gut that this wasn't the end. No, this was only the beginning. He smiled in anticipation of what was to come, letting out a low chuckle as he imagined all the other Roy Hubbards out there who were just waiting for him to find them.

  It was time to sharpen his knives and start hunting again.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Sheila leaned forward in the passenger seat of Finn Mercer's car, staring intently at the small house through the windshield.

  The killer could have parked right here, she thought, watching the Hubbards from a distance without them even knowing it. There aren't even any neighbors around to notice a strange vehicle.

  The house itself was a simple structure, with straight lines and a rectangular shape that made it look like it could have come right off an assembly line. The paint was fresh, the yard immaculate, but there wasn't a single flower or decoration to be seen. It looked like something out of a catalog rather than a place where people actually lived.

  "Looks more like a model home than a real one, doesn't it?" she asked, trying to shake off her unease. "Like it's just waiting for someone to move in and make it their own."

  Finn nodded, his gaze following hers. "That's because the Hubbards only moved in a few months ago. They didn't have much time to personalize it."

  "I wonder why the killer chose this family."

  "Maybe he didn't. Maybe he chose the house. It's isolated, set back from the road."

  "Near a graveyard, too," Sheila said, following his line of thinking. "That might have been important to him."

  Finn nodded, and they both fell silent, staring at the house.

  "Alright," Finn said, unbuckling his seat belt. "Let's take a closer look."

  Sheila stepped out into an afternoon that was calm and quiet. As they approached the house, Sheila studied the building more carefully. Pale yellow siding gleamed in the sunlight. The windows were framed by simple white curtains, and Sheila couldn't help but think how those curtains must have once given the Hubbards a false sense of privacy. She imagined the killer lurking in the shadows, peering through the windows as he plotted his vicious crime.

  "Look at that latticework," she said, pointing to the side of the house where wooden slats crisscrossed their way up toward the roof. "Seems like a perfect place for someone to climb."

  Finn studied it briefly, nodding. "Yeah, could be. Let's see if we can find any signs of disturbance."

  They reached the front door, which Finn tried cautiously. It was unlocked, and he glanced over at Sheila uneasily before pushing it open. They stepped inside, the silence of the house enveloping them like a cold shroud.

  The living room was sparsely furnished, with a beige sofa and matching armchair positioned around a small coffee table. But what caught Sheila's attention were the cardboard boxes stacked against one wall, some opened and half-emptied, others still sealed shut.

  "Looks like they hadn't finished unpacking," she observed, noting the labels scrawled across the boxes in black marker: "Kitchen" on one, "Master Bedroom" on another, and "Lily's Room" and "Max's Room" on others.

  "Such a shame," Finn said quietly. "Just moved in, just starting to get used to the routines of a different house, a different part of the country. They had so much life to live."

  Sheila picked up one of the smaller boxes labeled "Photos" and gingerly set it back down. Her heart ached for the Hubbards and their interrupted lives.

  Suddenly, Finn's nose twitched. "Do you smell that?"

  Sheila sniffed the air and detected the faint aroma of roast beef. They exchanged a glance before cautiously following the scent into the dining room. The table was set for four, complete with plates of half-eaten food. A large bowl of salad sat in the middle, surrounded by smaller dishes of vegetables and potatoes. The room itself was dominated by the rectangular wooden table, its surface marred by scratches and water rings. An ornate chandelier hung above.

  "Looks like they were just in the middle of dinner," Sheila said, her voice tinged with sadness. It seemed a bit odd that Mr. and Mrs. Hubbard would have been in their pajamas already, but every family had their own ways of doing things.

  Finn nodded, his gaze sweeping the room. "This must be where the killer confronted the family." He pointed at several chairs that had been knocked over, their legs sticking up in the air like broken limbs. The floor beneath them bore scuff marks and scratches, further evidence of a violent struggle.

  "Look at this," he continued, gesturing toward a crumpled sheet on the floor nearby. Several strips had been torn from it, their edges frayed. "This must be what the killer used to bind the victims."

  Sheila shivered at the thought, her mind racing as she tried to imagine the terror the Hubbards must have experienced. She was a big believer in taking self-defense classes, but she knew that no amount of preparation could guarantee safety in the face of pure evil.

  Her gaze fell upon the sliding glass window that led into the backyard, and a chilling thought crossed her mind. "What if the killer watched the family through this window before attacking?"

  "Could be," Finn mused, following her line of sight. "Let's check it out."

  As Sheila reached for the door handle, Finn stopped her with a firm hand on her arm. "Hold on, we don't want to disturb any evidence." He quickly put on a pair of gloves and carefully slid the door open.

  Stepping out into the backyard, they were met with nothing but a few hundred yards of grass rippling off toward a ring of trees. There were no decorations, no outdoor furniture. In fact, it seemed as though the yard had been barely touched since the Hubbards moved in.

  "Doesn't look like they used this space much," Sheila said. Turning around, she noticed an overhead light. It was on.

  "If this light was on last night," she said, "then I can't imagine the killer stood at the door as he watched the family. He was probably hiding somewhere. But where?"

  Finn stood beside her, his eyes scrutinizing every inch of the empty backyard. "There aren't many options. Maybe behind that bush, or up in one of those trees?" He sighed. "It doesn't do much good to speculate at this point. Let's head back inside and see if we missed anything."

  Finn turned toward the house. But Sheila couldn't tear her eyes away from the edge of the treeline, where a rickety wooden structure seemed to call out to her.

  "Wait, Finn—what's that over there?" she asked, pointing at the tall elm tree upon which an old tree house perched precariously.

  "Ah, I didn't notice that before," Finn admitted, his eyes narrowing as he studied the structure. "Must be from the previous tenants."

  Together, they approached the tree house. The wooden ladder leading up to it was weathered and covered in moss, but something about it caught Sheila's attention.

  "Look at this," she said, examining a series of fresh scuff marks on the lower rungs of the ladder. "Someone's been up there recently."

  "Could be that Max or Lily poked around up here recently," Finn said, but there was a hint of uncertainty in his tone.

  "Look at the size of the marks," Sheila said. "Those have got to be...what...size ten shoes? Max's feet aren't that big, and neither are Lily's."

  "So their dad came up here. Maybe he was just curious, wanted to see if he could do anything with the place."

  "Maybe," Sheila murmured, unconvinced. She felt a strange connection with the victims, an overwhelming need to uncover the truth and bring their killer to justice. And right now, her instincts were screaming at her that this tree house held some answers.

  Pulling out his phone, Finn took pictures of the rungs. It didn't look like there was much chance of getting shoe impressions from the rungs, but there was no harm in documenting the evidence.

  "I'm going to head up there and take a look around," Sheila said when he'd finished. "Just to see if there are any recent signs of activity."

  "Be careful," Finn warned, watching her ascent with a mix of concern and admiration. Sheila might not have had his years of police experience, but she was fearless.

  Sheila hoisted herself up, her toned muscles easily propelling her into the tree house. Its cramped interior was dim, lit only by a few slivers of sunlight that managed to sneak through the gaps between the wooden planks. The walls were adorned with faded posters of rock bands and superheroes, remnants of a childhood long gone. A thick layer of dust coated everything, disturbed only by her entrance.

  "Find anything?" Finn asked from below, his voice muffled by the tree house's insulating confines.

  "Nothing much," Sheila replied, wiping the dust from her hands onto her jeans. Her eyes scanned the small space, eventually landing on a cracked window that offered an unobstructed view of the Hubbard residence. "But there's this window... I can see the whole house from here. It's possible the killer watched them from this spot."

  "Interesting theory, but we still need something solid," Finn said, sounding restless. "Let's head back inside and keep searching."

  "One minute," Sheila said, taking one last look at the tree house's interior before preparing to leave.

  Maybe Finn was right, she thought, growing discouraged. Maybe Roy came up here, took a look around, and left. There's certainly no sign of—

  Just then, her keen eyes caught a glimpse of something carved into one of the boards in the corner of the room. It was a crude, child-like drawing of the four members of the Hubbard family gathered together around a tree surrounded by gravestones.

 

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