Butterfly Kills. Brenda Chapman

“I could walk you to your door if you’d like.”

      “I thought you were meeting someone at the pub.”

      “Yeah, but they can wait.”

      “I’m fine, Wolf. You go.”

      “You sure?”

      “I’ll see you in a couple of days.”

      “Get some rest, then.” He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. She held onto his arm for a moment before he turned away. She would have liked to wrap her whole body around him and make things right. From the look in his eyes, she believed he wanted the same.

      Leah walked briskly down Sydenham toward Johnson, chilled in her light clothing. At the walkway to the front door of the two-storey red brick house where she’d lived for the past two years, she stopped and looked back toward the corner. Wolf still stood in the shadows where the streets intersected, watching until she made it safely inside. Another gym class lesson well learned.

      She smiled and waved at the same time he looked down to check his phone. She slowly lowered her hand. A feeling of sadness welled up unexpectedly. One day Wolf would find somebody else and this fragile friendship would slip away. Some things could never go back to what they were. It always went like that with the people who meant the most to her. Sometimes you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.

      She started up the short walkway toward the house and surveyed the apartment windows. Lights on the main floor were off, but Becky appeared to be home on the second. Leah’s spirits rose a bit. It looked like there’d be some company around for the weekend.

      The house was built in the 1930s when front porches and bay windows were in vogue. Leah liked the old style elegance of the structure, even if time had worn the brick and peeled the paint on the wood detailing above the windows. Her one-bedroom apartment in the basement was cozy but definitely student digs. She’d filled it with IKEA furniture and her parents’ cast offs. As soon as she finished her thesis, she planned to move into a nicer place and have a yard sale. The Queen’s Help Line had promised her more hours whenever she had more time to give them. It would do until she made up her mind about the future.

      The front door creaked open and she entered the hallway. An envelope lay at the base of the stairs, stark white against the grey carpet. She walked over and stooped to pick it up, flipping the envelope over to read the name as she straightened. Becky must have dropped it on her way upstairs.

      Leah walked up the creaky stairs to the second floor landing and knocked on Becky’s door. She could hear music and Becky talking on the phone when she leaned her ear against the wood. She listened for a while to see if Becky would hang up. After a minute or so, Leah knocked a second time before bending to slip the letter under the door. She would have liked to share a glass of wine and a chat, so she lingered a while longer before giving up and heading downstairs. For some reason she didn’t feel like being alone this evening.

      She flicked on the light switch at the head of the basement stairs and cursed as the light remained off. It was the second time the bulb had burned out within three weeks. She’d phone the landlord as soon as she got inside and get him to check the wiring. She should have insisted last time.

      She stepped carefully down the steep stairwell, the light from the landing just enough to make out the outline of the steps. A mustiness seeped up from the basement concrete floor that no amount of air freshener could disguise. She’d bought a dehumidifier that helped slightly and lit a lot of incense, but it was time to start looking at apartment ads in the Whig Standard. Hopefully she’d find a better place not already rented for fall term.

      At the bottom of the stairs, she felt in her pocket for her keys, then slid her hand down the door to the lock. She stopped with her hand on the knob and turned her head toward the laundry room. Was that a noise she’d heard or was fatigue making her jumpy? She listened for a moment more, her heart pounding like a jackhammer. Silence filled the space and she exhaled slowly. A braver person would have gone to look, but that would not be her. She had no desire to face a rat or other vermin in the dark.

      It took three fumbling tries before she unlocked the door and opened it into her apartment. She stepped inside and felt along the wall to the light switch. She smiled when the room burst into brightness. At least the wiring problem hadn’t entered her inner sanctum as she’d feared it might.

      She reached back with her foot to shove the door closed. Instead of clicking shut, it swung back toward her. Her first thought was that dampness had warped the wood and the lock didn’t catch as it should. “Dammit,” she said aloud.

      She turned and took a step toward the door before her legs stopped working. Her eyes widened as her brain scrambled to make sense of what she was seeing. A person dressed entirely in black filled the opening like a character out of a slasher movie. Her first thought was how absurd they looked, but horror quickly followed. The hand she’d extended toward the door handle found her mouth. She let out a shriek.

      The figure stepped inside her apartment and pushed the door shut. Their eyes stayed on hers. “Did you think this was a game?”

      She shook her head but comprehension dawned. Her mind was scrambling, searching frantically for toeholds. The chance of Becky hearing her scream two floors above was remote. There was no chance of pushing past the person in the narrow hallway and even less chance to make it out the closed door without being grabbed.

      “I have no idea what you want,” she heard herself beg. “Please just leave.” She stumbled backward, her leg banging against the wall.

      The person took a step closer, leather-gloved hands reaching toward her. Leah turned to run into the living room, knowing she was trapped with no way out.

      Knowing she was in very big trouble.

      Chapter Two

      As soon as he got into work Saturday morning, Jacques Rouleau dialled the long-distance number that Whelan, his former colleague on the Ottawa force, had forwarded to him the month before. It was the sixth time he’d tried in as many weeks. He’d resorted to calling at odd hours since nobody had returned his messages, even though he left his cellphone, home, and work numbers. He shifted the phone to his other hand. On the fourth ring, somebody picked up.

      “Is this Shannon MacDonald? Yes? My name is Staff Sergeant Jacques Rouleau. I’ve left a few messages trying to track down Kala Stonechild.”

      “Kala’s not here. Sorry I never called you back, but I had nothing to tell you.”

      “She hasn’t been in touch?”

      “No.” He heard a deep intake of her breath. “Kala came back to Red Rock and got her dog after she left Ottawa and disappeared into the bush. I haven’t heard from her since. It’s been four months, give or take.”

      “I’m trying to hold the job in the Criminal Investigations Division in Kingston open for her, but I was handed a stack of resumes last week. I have to come up with a name by the end of the month.”

      “I don’t know what to tell you. Probably go ahead and fill it with someone else.”

      “That might be my only option.”

      He sensed she wasn’t telling him everything. He waited. The silence lengthened to the edge of social politeness. When she finally resumed talking, her voice was less certain, worried. “Kala wasn’t in a very good frame of mind last time I saw her. I’ve sent her several messages on her phone, but she hasn’t responded to any of them. She’s never been out of touch this long before.”

      “She left Ottawa without much notice. Did something happen to upset her on the job?”

      “It was a family matter. She didn’t talk about it much.”

      Rouleau remembered Kala’s dark, haunted eyes, her closed-off expression the last time he’d seen her. For some reason he couldn’t name, he knew she needed his help. After only a few months of working together in Ottawa, he felt this irrational responsibility for her. “I’ll