Was there a clue in the message? Something that might point me to where I needed to go next? To where the monster had taken the girl?
Did the monster want to be caught?
Did she know what was coming? Could she sense it? Smell it in the wind?
We belong dead.
The lighter, paper, and tiny stone felt heavy in my pocket. I reached in to touch the lighter as I walked, running my fingers over the butterfly etching, over Gran’s initials.
Metamorphosis, I remembered Gran explaining, as she held out the lighter, looking at the butterfly. That’s what I think of each time I see this. How the lowly caterpillar turns into the butterfly. How we’ve each got a butterfly hiding inside us.
* * *
I WAS TIRED, thirsty, swollen, and itchy from the mosquitoes feasting. I wanted to go back to the campground, open a beer, put some calamine lotion on my bites, and think about what I’d discovered. I was nearly to the cottage’s yard when I spotted a dark blue pickup truck parked next to my van.
And a man sitting in one of the old wicker rocking chairs on the porch, watching me.
A new tenant?
The owner, maybe?
I raised my hand in a friendly wave, came up with a quick cover story: I was a newcomer exploring the island, looking for a place to rent, wondered if that path would take you down to the water, ooh boy how about those mosquitoes? That would do.
But I didn’t get the chance.
“Miss Shelley,” the man called, standing.
I guessed him to be about my age. He was trim, fit, with close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair and skin tan and lined from the sun. He wore jeans, work boots, a khaki button-down shirt. He jumped down off the porch and walked closer until I could smell his cheap drugstore cologne.
He was smiling, but it was really more of a smirk.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m Lizzy Shelley. I don’t think we’ve met?”
“I’m Pete Gibbs. Local constable.”
Great. A cop.
I nodded. “Nice to meet you, Constable.”
“David tells me you’re here to collect stories about Rattling Jane.”
“David?” Then it hit me. Where I had heard the last name Gibbs. Shit. “Oh, you mean Skink?”
He seemed to flinch a little at the nickname, but recovered and smiled. “He’s my son.”
Now it was me who flinched. Somehow Skink had left out this crucial little detail about himself—oh, and by the way, my dad’s a cop.
“Look, Miss Shelley, I understand you’re a big deal—at least according to my son. He seems downright starstruck, to tell the truth. He told me all about your TV show, podcast, and blog. Even made me watch some of the show—Monsters Among Us.
“It’s impressive, really,” he went on, “that you manage to do this for a living—drive around the country searching for bigfoot and his pals.”
He looked at me, seeming to wait for some kind of response. I only nodded.
“As impressive as your monster-hunting credentials might be,” he said, “I need to ask you to step back a little.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Scaring kids crosses the line, Miss Shelley.”
“Who have I scared?”
“Zoey Johanssen had to be taken to the emergency room this afternoon.”
Zoey. The kid from the pier, the one with the short hair and trench coat. “The emergency room?” I repeated.