I’m not a detective. No badge. No papers. No fedora.Just a man who looked too closely into a missing person’s case — and didn’t come back whole.

Now I live in a house they call Cry Wolf Cottage. It’s not meant kindly.The neighbours use it to mock the paranoid recluse who finds patterns in the noise, and crimes in the patterns.

But I know what I saw last week.A girl in a yellow raincoat.And the man who dragged her away.No one here believes me.Maybe someone out there will.