By the time Red and Peter returned to her grandmother’s house, the sun had already dipped behind the trees, casting long shadows across the clearing. The air had that crisp, early evening chill that clung to the forest, and the porch light flickered on as they pulled up.

  Red stepped out of the cruiser, stretching her back. “Well, that was one hell of a story.”

  Peter nodded, still turning over Elliott’s words in his mind. “A fixer for a criminal syndicate run by a fairy godmother. What the hell kind of town is this?”

  Red smirked. “One where the wolves don’t stay in the woods.”

  As they approached the front door, it creaked open. Her grandmother stood in the doorway, drying her hands with a dish towel.

  “Welcome back,” she said, her tone light, but her eyes sharp. “There’s something you need to see.”

  Red followed her grandmother inside. Peter stayed close, his eyes scanning the perimeter with the quiet vigilance of someone who had seen too many crime scenes to trust peace.

  Her grandmother pointed to the kitchen table. “It was sitting on the porch when I stepped out to feed the chickens. No delivery van. No footsteps on the gravel. Just… there.”

  Red’s heart sank. “No one should know I’m here.”

  Peter moved first, placing himself between Red and the table as he approached the package. It was an old cardboard box, taped shut with care, but no return address. Just one word written on the top in neat, black marker:

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “Red.”

  Peter reached into his jacket and pulled a pocketknife. “Step back.”

  She did.

  He sliced through the tape carefully, then peeled the flaps open.

  Inside was a stack of manila folders, worn and yellowed with time. The air coming out of the box smelled faintly of mildew and ink.

  Peter pulled one out and opened it.

  Red moved to his side, eyes scanning the contents.

  Crime scene photos. Autopsy reports. Police statements.

  Each one dated and stamped by departments they didn’t recognize.

  Peter flipped to the top of the folder. “Fariesburg Police Department,” he muttered.

  Red blinked. “Fariesburg?”

  She grabbed another folder. Same thing. Another case. Another unsolved murder.

  Another victim with signs of a savage, clawed attack.

  The deeper they went, the worse it got.

  Case after case. Year after year.

  All matching the Wolf’s MO.

  All from Fariesburg.

  Peter frowned, pulling out the last folder. “This one doesn’t have a body. Just…” He trailed off.

  A single page rested inside. No file. No report. Just a typed note, on stark white paper:

  Who’s afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?

  Certainly not I.

  The answers you seek aren’t in StoreyBrook… but in Fariesburg.

  Follow the coordinates to learn more.

  Red’s stomach twisted as she stared at the note.

  Beneath the message, typed in small, neat font, were a set of GPS coordinates.

  Peter leaned over to look.

  “Looks like someone wants us to keep digging.”

  Red didn’t move. Her eyes stayed locked on the note, her fingers tightening slightly around the edge of the table.

  “No,” she whispered. “They want us to follow breadcrumbs. They want us right where they can see us.”

  Peter didn’t argue.

  But he didn’t suggest ignoring it either.

  Because deep down, they both knew—

  The only way to stop the Wolf… was to follow the trail.