3. Caleb

THREE

Caleb

Looking around the kitchen as I walked carefully through Willow’s living space, my first impression was how clean it was. Not just surface clean, but clean clean. The smell of chemicals lingered under the fragrance of fresh flowers and, from a glance around the room, possibly six different aromatic candles.

This room was an allergy sufferer’s worst nightmare.

Her furniture was a bland neutral. There was a lot of beige. As I moved towards the hall, I couldn’t help but think that this was not the house of an artist. I expected splashes of color. Bold prints with garish contrasts. Instead, I was faced with…beige.

The first bedroom faced the street and was utilized as an art studio. Which made sense, since she spent so much of her time at the store on Main Street. But again, the room lacked personality. White walls with distressed white weathered hardwood flooring, and a simple gauze curtain that shut out the curious passersby. Two easels sat center stage, and an L-shaped workbench was the only other furnishing .

Some canvases sat facing the wall, while others of muted landscapes dotted the room. None were mounted onto the wall, and I wondered if that was another trait of her self-confidence. Or lack of it. More frustratingly for me, this room told me little about Willow either.

Conscious of the thin covering between me and the street outside, I moved to the next room.

The bathroom was pristine white, featuring a sleek washbasin, a spotless toilet, and a bathtub with a modern shower overhead. The simplicity and meticulous organization of the space told me as much about Willow as anything else in the house.

Which was little.

Other than the fact she obviously had too much spare time to spend cleaning.

Pushing open the door to the remaining room, I stepped into her bedroom and let out a low chuckle. Here was where she spent most of her time, which took me by surprise, considering she had a home studio. While by no means messy, this room was just more lived in. I could tell from the slightly rumpled bedspread, still in neutral tones, but it looked worn and well used.

Her bed took up most of the space. Pushed up against the corner of the room, it faced the pine trees. Her drapes were pulled wide open, allowing an uninterrupted view of the woods behind her house.

I knew she closed them at night while she slept, but I appreciated the simple view nonetheless. A desk sat in the opposite corner, again facing outwards. She seemed to spend a lot of her time looking out , if the positioning of her furniture was anything to go by.

The walls were covered with sketches, paintings, and a few portraits. Nothing was framed or even looked professionally finished, but her personality shone through, revealing more about her than anything else in the house. The landscapes were mostly of local scenery, one of Main Street in winter, which had an impressive amount of detail. The sketches were mostly done in pencil. One seemed to be charcoal, but most of them were black-and-white abstracts of familiar landmarks created by clever use of light and shadow.

I paid more attention to the portraits. An older couple was predominant throughout, sometimes together, most times apart. Her friend from this morning was also scattered about, her face sketched at varying angles. I recognized the woman from the diner and the guy from the bakery—he really did seem to be everywhere I went.

As I absorbed her artwork and admired her skill, I noticed a common thread to it all. The same was true for her house. She wasn’t featured in any of her art, and I hadn’t seen a single framed photo of her either.

Yet, this room, it was her . From the skewed sneakers at the entrance of her closet to the half-empty water glass by her bed. The drapes were pushed back so far they couldn’t be seen from outside. The scattered artwork may have been capturing moments in her life that she wanted to keep close to her.

The small adjacent bathroom held a washbasin, toilet, and shower. White walls, white ceiling, white floor.

I’d seen hospital wards with more personality.

A mirrored cabinet over the sink revealed the normal hygiene items, for a woman who lived alone. The condoms were the only thing interesting. Tapping the lid of the unopened box, I looked around, checking that I had missed nothing.

Back in her bedroom, I opened her closet and stepped into the small space. Immediately I was enveloped in her scent. And something else. Something I couldn’t quite identify.

Her drawers held no secrets apart from the very unsurprising fact that her taste in underwear was as bland as her taste in home decor. Plain white tees were only broken up by a handful of black T-shirts instead. Three pairs of jeans hung harmlessly in the corner, and being no fashion connoisseur myself, I wouldn’t put my life on it, but they all looked exactly the same: same fit, same color, same unremarkable jeans.

She had two hoodies, one gray and one black.

This woman could be a spy for all I knew. She’d blend in a crowd, and if anyone ever broke into her home—myself not included—they’d be so bored they’d leave.

She owned nothing of value. No jewelry. No laptop, no tablet. It seemed she chose to isolate herself from technology. I’d seen one TV in the living room, but that was it.

When I came out of the closet, I got down on my hands and knees and looked under the bed. I found a pencil. Considering how spotless the floor was, under the bed was almost a chaotic mess with its lone wayward pencil.

I turned on the spot as I soaked in the room, taking note of the art, the bed, the drapes, taking in everything that the room told me. If there were mysteries in this room, they were well hidden.

“Who are you?” I mumbled as I began to lift her drawings off the wall to see if they were masking Willow’s secrets. They weren’t. The walls were bare behind them.

Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was her space. More than just her room, this was where she was comfortable. I felt it when I walked into the room, and I still felt it now.

Picking up her pillow, I inhaled deeply, my wolf nose picking up a scent I wouldn’t associate with Willow. Sour almost. Bitter.

“Now what’s this?” Pulling off the pillowcase, I pushed my nose into the soft pillow. The bitterness was deeper, stronger.

“Sickness?” Drawing my head back, I looked around the room once more. “What am I missing?” A small drawer in her desk revealed a diary, which contained coded letters and numbers, and the more I looked at it, the more I saw the pattern. “You’re ill.” Frowning, I flipped through the pages again. The code was unique to Willow, but a pattern was there. I just needed to know what the pattern was for.

Returning to the kitchen, I opened the refrigerator, my lip curling in disgust at how little meat there was. The shelves were filled with fruit and vegetables, and the only meat she had was two skinless chicken breasts.

Almond milk, bottled water, and one bottle of wine rounded off the contents of her fridge.

A search through her cupboards revealed nothing more exciting than some crackers, canned soups, and protein bars.

Nothing indicated she was sick. But now that my nose had the scent, I could smell it everywhere. Faint in the kitchen and on her couch, but it was there. Lingering.

She wasn’t diabetic. She had carbs and candy, more than an emergency stock if she dipped in blood sugar. There was no medication, except one bottle of Tylenol, but most homes would have some form of painkiller in them.

In her bathroom, there’d been nothing to note except that she chose regular tampons, not plus. The only other thing worth noting was her choice of condom was the ribbed kind in regular size.

“I know less about you than when I walked in,” I grumbled, returning to the fridge. Yesterday, I’d watched the teenager eat chips and drink soda, yet I’d seen nothing that hinted at that in my recent search. “You don’t eat someone’s last bag of chips and think you won’t get caught…” Looking through the cupboards again, I frowned. “Unless you know he’s here and leave them for him.”

That made sense.

Why though?

Did he need somewhere safe? Was he in danger? Chewing the inside of my cheek, I again scoured the place, hoping I missed something.

“She’s a bleeding heart?” Rolling my head on my shoulders, I shrugged off the feeling of irritation. I’d never come across a blank slate before.

This woman could be anyone.

I didn’t like it.

Walking back to the room she used as a studio, I stayed close to the wall as I entered, hoping to remain undetected from any prying eyes.

There was nothing here except her art. I compared a landscape to the one I had seen in her bedroom. In comparison, this one was…flat. It was still very well done, but now that I ha d seen her personal drawings and paintings, I could see the difference. A commission?

A canvas facing inward had caught my eye before, and now that I was back in the room, it drew me to it. Curious, I lifted it and turned it around. I almost dropped it in surprise as my face stared back at me.

My eyes narrowed as I took in the drawing. My hair was away from my face, the waves that sometimes irritated me were pushed neatly away from my forehead. My hair was darkish blond, with lighter strands throughout that had many a woman ask me if I colored my hair. The nose was straight, too long in my opinion, but in the portrait, it was evened out with full lips. A thick scruff of stubble coated the face, hiding a strong jaw and giving some definition to the cheekbones. My hair curled slightly under my ears, drawing attention to the slight scar that ran from the bottom of the right ear to the collarbone.

Staring at myself, I felt slightly unnerved as my portrait watched me back. Leaning closer, I scoffed at the exaggerated length of the eyelashes. With everything else so precise, it amused me she had used artistic license on this.

Placing the portrait back where I’d found it, I went through every canvas to see if there were more.

Finding three, I arranged them in front of me. In one, I was half-hidden in shadow, a hoodie worn under a jacket. In another, my face was turned away, looking over my shoulder to the trees and mountain behind me. In the third, I was leaning against the wall, under the shade of a tree on Main Street, a familiar smirk on my face as I appeared to be waiting.

Flicking my eyes over each portrait, I didn’t know what to think. I’d been here three days. She only spoke to me this morning.

I hadn’t worn that jacket since I’d been here.

I wasn’t beside that mountain.

And she hadn’t been home since this morning’s encounter .

“She’s psychic?”

Psychics were a money-grabbing farce. Actual premonition was rare, almost a myth.

“Myth? Says the wolf shifter,” I muttered. Pulling out my phone, I snapped pics of all the pictures of me. Putting the canvases back in place, I hesitated. On one, there was a date penciled in the bottom corner. It confused the hell out of me until I realized she’d written it British style, day before month.

Two things creeped me out about this. One, she wasn’t British, and two, this was drawn two months before I got here.

“What the fuck are you?” Quickly, I took a picture of the date, and then I cleaned up after myself, ensuring the room looked like it had before I went snooping.

Unease settled on my shoulders. In the kitchen, I grabbed one of her candy bars and bit into it as I thought about everything I didn’t know about Willow Harper. Like the important information, such as where she was from. Who were her parents? Why the fuck was she drawing me? Who the hell was she?

Why the fuck was she drawing me?

My senses suddenly alerted me to the sound of someone approaching from outside. Checking my watch, I saw I’d overstayed my welcome. Stuffing the candy wrapper in my jeans pocket, I crossed the floor on light feet, easing the back door open just as a key slid into the front lock .

While she opened the front door, I closed the back one, masking any noise with the sound she made. I heard a long exhale just as the latch caught on the back door.

Crouching low, I used the wall to hide my presence when Willow walked into her living space and came to a sudden stop.

I could hear her heart racing from here, her adrenaline kicked in, and I pressed myself against the wall.

“Who’s there?” Her voice was quiet, almost like she didn’t want the answer. “Someone’s been here. Are you still here?”

The floorboard creaked and, tilting my head down, I listened closely. She was turning in a circle? I heard her walk away and knew she was checking the rooms in her house. She was brave. I’d known a lot of women in my time among humans, and I was certain at least half of them would either be outside by now or at least on their phones, calling for help. That reaction wasn’t what I expected just from women either; I knew a few men would react the same.

While she was gone, knowing just how few rooms she had to check, I eased along the wall to the corner of the house, ran to the fence separating the properties, and jumped over it quickly. Keeping low, I waited, and sure enough, only moments later, the back door opened.

Knowing it was risky but chancing it anyway, I turned my head to see between the narrow cracks in the fence.

She was on the back step, not looking around her space or her neighbors’. Her attention was fixed on the woods in front of her. Reaching up, her fingers pushed her hair behind her ear, and I caught the slight tremor of her hand. With an uneven step, Willow went back inside her house.

I waited until I heard the lock turn and then waited some more. When I was sure she was no longer at her kitchen window, staring out at the trees, I ran to the teenage kid’s backyard, hopped the low fence, and within a few strides, I was enveloped by pine trees.

I didn’t stop, moving back further into the woods before I looped back and approached her house, knowing that the shadows of the pines hid me well.

Her kitchen window was clear. The drapes were pulled across the bedroom window. Did she think someone would be watching? Or was she already sure it was me?

Willow remained home for the remainder of the day. Each time she was in the kitchen, she never looked up. She never looked outside once.

It was for that reason I never moved from my spot all night.

She knew someone had been there, and she was probably sure they were observing her, so her act of defiance was to show herself to them as she stayed in her home, unafraid, but not quite brave enough to raise her head in case her hunch was true.

She didn’t want to see who it was. She didn’t want to be proven right.

My gut was also telling me who she knew she’d see.

Me .

Watching.

Waiting.

Waiting for what? I was no longer sure.