At the end of the workday, Owen closed the library and drove to the apartment building located across a field next to the grade school. The building held only six apartments, split evenly between two floors. He remembered that Kiara’s rooms were on the second floor. Parking in front of the place, he sat for a few minutes, weighing his decision to contact her. Revealing that he had secret information on Feit that could only have been gathered through spying might not sit well with the gang. Also, she might not believe him as to what happened and blame Owen for her friend’s death. “How many people would believe me?” he wondered. Still, he turned the car off, opened the door, and got out. He wasn’t sure if it was the sight of the blood or the primal sound the creature made in its attack, but he felt unsafe and didn’t like being out in the open.

He found her name on the mailbox downstairs—K. BOLDEN, APT #6. There was no security, so he had no problem simply walking up to the second floor, heading down the hallway to its end, and finding her door. He took a deep breath, exhaled, and knocked, lightly at first before realizing no one would hear him. He considered running away and then knocked louder. A few moments passed without response, although he eventually noticed there was music playing inside. He was about to knock again when a female voice answered. “Who is it?”

“Owen Hapstead,” he said, and then nervously added, “I’m the town librarian,” which he immediately regretted.

“We don’t have any books out and don’t use the library.”

“Yes, ma’am, I know. I have information for you about Aaron Feit.” This statement was met with silence. “He’s an acquaintance of yours, is he not?” He stood waiting for a half minute before there finally came a response.

“Hold on,” said the voice. A little more time passed and then he could hear the chain lock sliding off. The deadbolt clicked, and the door swung back. “Come in,” she said, but he couldn’t see where she was. He took a tentative step through the threshold, and the instant he was inside, the door slammed shut behind him, a forearm came up and wedged into his throat. There was something hard and pointed jabbed into his back. He saw in front of him, the baby, William, sitting in a high chair near a table in the kitchenette across the apartment.

“Who sent you?” she said.

“Nobody; I’ve come to tell you something tragic has befallen your colleague.”

“Colleague?”

“The tattoo you all share.”

“What about Aaron?”

“I hate to tell you this, but he was attacked and killed.”

“By who?”

“I’m not trying to be obtuse, but the question is more by what than who.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Do you believe in vampires?” he asked.