It is late at night when Mr Handerson wakes from having fallen asleep on the leather couch inside his apartment. Gunshot fire and war cries greet him upon awakening, ripping him cruelly out of his dozy state. The noise is only silenced by his fist, hitting the remote with such force, for a moment he believes to have broken it.

The old man falls back into the cushions and collects his thoughts before he gets up to take himself towards the promise of a soft mattress, waiting inside the empty walls of his bedroom. In passing, his hazy eyes glance in routine over the old cabinet by the southern wall, where his late wife stares back at him accusingly from inside the dusty frame. Even in death, her eyes are scolding him for having fallen asleep in front of the tv once again.

The ticking of the clock above steers his attention away from the person he wishes so secretly to join. With it showing almost 4 am, he knows he can sleep another three hours at most before he will have to make his way to the senior club for his daily morning gymnastics. Stealing a quick look out of his curtains, his movement ceases.

It seems, Mrs Roberts is still up as well. The backdoor to his neighbour's brightly lit townhouse stands wide open and her golden retriever lays unmoving on the wooden slabs of her porch, probably asleep. He waits another moment for some sign of movement on her property, but nothing happens.

The cypresses in the impeccably kept garden bend under the force of the wind and remind him of the decreasing temperatures outside. A tingling sensation spreads within Mr Handerson's belly and he grows worried by the second for the retired woman. Sybill would surely make fun of him, would she still be alive.

But she isn't.

With a deep sigh, he corrects the glasses on his nose and heads towards his front door, but not without grabbing a warm jacket and his pepper spray. Just in case, the elderly man tells himself.

_______

It's been two days since the serial killer's intrusion. Two days of not knowing what is going to happen next. But that is just life, isn't it?

Life and death surround us on all our paths. Why is it, we spend most of our precious time fearing one? And the other can scare just as much with all its responsibilities and what if-scenarios. All we can do is continue to exist and make the best of what we are given.

Zoe is doing exactly that. She has spent the entire day yesterday just wandering the forest, collecting nettle and observing the wonders of mother nature.

This morning, she feels reborn. With glowing skin and eager heart, she descends the stairs whilst wrapping herself in a warm, earthly toned cardigan. Looking from her kitchen window, she can tell that the winds have been picking up again. Autumn has arrived.

Like the other morning, she ignores her phone entirely and heads straight for the mahogany door leading out into the back, eager to wish her ladies a good morning. Yes, she loves the girls as if they are family and Katie has probably been the first friend to really understand her connection with them.

Hair flying wildly and challenging the view, her naked feet wade joyfully through the long grass. Fresh dew soaks from the leaves into her soles and Zoe is filled with deep gratitude for her existence. She has been staying away from the rest of the world since she has returned home and she isn't planning on changing that today. First, Zoe has to take care of Zoe.

Her moment having been interrupted by a curious gawk, she opens her eyes to find feathery balls running busily towards her. "Of course you are already up." Bending down, her fingers find a neck underneath brown feathers and scratch softly. The being underneath her hand turns into a statue, while the others are hungrily pecking her cardigan.

"Alright, alright. As if you haven't stuffed yourselves on the salad already...", she says with a glance to her robbed garden, but not without a slight smile. About time to finally fence it. 

I'll see to it after breakfast, she thinks whilst heading, followed by a horde of hens, into the old barn to pull out the big guns.

Corn.

_______

Agent McCarthy studies the quiet farmhouse on the edge of the colour-splattered forest with an analytical gaze as he steers the black Audi onto the dirt road leading up to it. His hands cramp subconsciously around the smooth steering wheel, but he keeps a collected exterior.

"It's not going to be pretty." His older, more experienced partner voices what both are thinking and it helps to ease the tension which has collected over the past hour of silence inside the car.

Approaching a suspected murder scene always carries nervousness and certain excitement with it, but the agent has learned to expect the unexpected when it comes to the Key Killer. 

The middle-aged man has been with the bureau for more than fifteen years and has experienced his fair share of brutally executed murders. Yet, the abominable images the serial killer has gifted him with remain unmatched. What vile creature is capable of such psychotic acts? It's beyond psychotic. Whatever it is they are hunting, it needs to be put down.

The first victim's name has been Cardinal Schmitt. No governmental institution has ever released the full story about his murder to the press. And they are probably never going to. The Catholic Church has made sure of that.

'For the time being, no further details will be released in regard to this matter for it could compromise national security,' have been the press speaker's final words. 

That's always the go-to. 

'National security'.

Even though Agent McCarthy does not agree with the authoritarian interference of the power-wielding religious organisation, he certainly agrees to save innocent citizens' ears from hearing the gory details he wishes to forget.

He parks the black car next to the farm's run-down garage and both men stare ahead with perplexed expressions. But it's not the barely standing building that has Agent McCarthy's and Agent Simmer's cool composure drop. No. It's the woman.

She's alive.

Hammer-swinging and all, Zoe Stromgrad is standing barefoot inside her garden. The long waves of her natural hair are chaotically thrown around by the gusts. Weathered planks of wood lay strategically arranged around the lawn, representing her plan of execution. Miss Stromgrad's skirt is covered in dirt. Leaves stick to her brown cardigan, making the woman underneath seem like a botanical magnet.

Both men face another and Simmer lifts his eyebrows in question. After the director has provided them with Zoe Stromgrad's statement from Tuesday night, they have been positive to arrive at a murder scene. Not that.

"Are we at the right place?"

"Definitely," McCarthy responds, eyeing the navigational system announcing their destination. 

His questioning eyes return to the sight before him, just as the blonde throws her head around and her radiant eyes meet his.

There is no denying that Miss Stromgrad is a breathtaking and unusual character on the first impression. Then again, the agent spends most, if not all of his time in the city. Where women (or men, for that matter) certainly don't act and look like her. 

The look of surprise on her face tells him, she must not have heard the approaching car.

"Shall we?" Simmer asks with amusement in his deep voice, before he steps outside, not waiting for a response from his partner. An excited chuckle rings out from Simmer as the agents approach the garden's owner, routinely readying their badges, "I cannot wait to hear that story."

_________

"Zoe Stromgrad?"

Not putting down the hammer yet, she casually walks towards the approaching men. Both impeccably dressed. The car expensive, yet unassuming. Her feeling tells her that they don't mean harm. Then again, her feeling has signalled her the same for when the killer has been here. So, she's going to hold on to her unobtrusive weapon for a while longer.

"What can I help you with, gentlemen?"

They are both tall men, about the same size in length. But when it comes to width they are significantly different. Whilst the younger one is of average athletic stature, the other carries more than just his bones around. She merely notices, there's no need to judge appearances. Looks are deceiving after all.

"Agent McCarthy, FBI," the thinner man lifts a black leather pouch, showcasing the initials of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, his sharp features underlined by a blinding smile, "and this is my partner, Agent Simmer. We would like to ask you a few questions, Miss Stromgrad. I hope that's alright."

His smooth words sound as if they've been pulled out of a phrasebook and it reminds her of all the times she has listened to an FBI representative speak.

They like their dogs well trained. 

No. She shouldn't be so spiteful. She might have trust issues in governing bodies, but these two men have done nothing to deserve her attitude. Yet.

"Let's go inside then." 

--------

"Is this about Tuesday night?"

The seated men exchange a quick glance as Zoe puts the steaming cups of nettle tea on the refurbished coffee table. Taking a seat on a floor cushion herself, she looks expectantly at the agents on the couch.

"Yes, mostly," Agent Simmer replies as his eyes follow a leaf dislodging from her wild hair and landing quietly on the dark floorboards.

"We have cause to concern about your safety, Miss." McCarthy jumps in with grim expression. 

The response he receives is unmistakably a small laugh. 

"My safety? Since when does the FBI care about my safety?" She doesn't mean to ridicule his statement. It just happens.

"Have you watched the news yet, Miss?"

"First of all, please stop calling me 'Miss'. Just 'Zoe' is fine. And second, no I haven't." The warning of her gut feeling returns with a sting. "Why? What happened?"

Her attitude is replaced by honest curiosity as Agent McCarthy looks unsure in how to begin his answer. Simmer jumps in to help his partner. When also with a lot less apprehension to say the wrong thing. 

"Early in the morning, another presumed victim of the Key Killer was found. Does the name Evelyn Roberts sound familiar to you?"

Zoe's eyes shift to the patchily coloured coffee table in thought. "Not really. I mean there was a famous journalist out there with the same name, but I don't think she is still alive."

McCarthy drives one of his hands casually through his short hair, all the while not taking his brown eyes off her. "Yes, Mrs Roberts was a retired journalist, famous for Hollywood gossip and the like, that's right," he confirms, "According to first results, she must have died around 3.30 am this morning. The murder bore the signs and symbolisms of the Key Killer."

They gauge her reaction carefully when she says nothing at first. "Journalist, you say?" The tea stops tasting and she puts down her cup with furrowed eyebrows. Suddenly, she has so many questions. "How?"

"How what, Miss Stromgrad?"

"How did he do it?"

Simmer's attentive eyes shift to his partner's form next to him. Zoe makes out a glimmer of amusement within them. What she doesn't understand, is for what. "Mrs Roberts was drowned, Miss."

Zoe swallows dryly and loses all interest in ever finishing that tea. "What a shame." She cannot think of anything else to say. "But how does that tie to me?"

Upon asking, Simmer picks up his cup for the first time and brings the still steaming liquid to his lips. After a careful sip, he puts it back down and pulls out pen and paper.

"Well, that's what we are here to find out, Miss.