Chapter 1

Giselle Bamford jerked open the back door of Moss’s Butcher Shop, her heart thumping in her ears, her breathing ragged gasps. Snatching her apron off a hook on the wall, she jerked it over her head and quickly tied it around her waist, her fingers trembling, making the task almost impossible, but she fumbled through it, yanking it tight just as she shoved her way into the front of the store.

“I’m telling you, Judy, it’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard,” Betsy Moss, wife of the shop owner, said to the elderly woman on the other side of the glass counter. “Can you imagine those poor parents?”

Judy just nodded, her eyes scanning the lamb chops in the case. “Are those still on special?”

Giselle stepped up to the counter. “Who’s next?” Her voice was just as shaky as her fingers. The butcher shop overflowed with people, most scanning the aisles or glass cases. A few added to Betsy’s tale, sharing their versions of disgust and disbelief.

“I’m next,” an elderly man, thin, his fingers trembling almost as much as hers, said. “I need some of those sausage links.” He glanced at Giselle. “Are they still twenty-nine cents a pound?”

“Yes, sir,” Giselle said, grabbing a sheet of wax paper.

“Did you hear, Giselle? They found another child this morning, poor little Agatha Henderson.” Betsy Moss wrapped a large rump roast in butcher’s paper as she spoke. “And just like the others, her body was replaced with the trunk of a banana tree carved in the exact likeness of the child. Who does that? Most unsettling.” Betsy shook her head, making a tsk-tsk sound. “Can you imagine being the parents? Your living, breathing baby stolen and replaced with a tree trunk. How sick in the head can the person be who did that?”

Giselle shook her head, avoiding eye contact with Betsy as she stacked sausage links on the paper. Harry Moss bounced between the customers, taking orders and making jokes. Brighton Cove was a small town in New England, where everyone knew everyone else and secrets might as well be printed in the Brighton Gazette. “Do they know yet who is doing it?” Giselle asked, her voice almost a whisper, as if afraid of the answer.

Betsy chattered on, not catching Giselle’s timid tone. “Nah, not a clue. It has to be premeditated, though. Those sculptures have to take months to carve. Yet, that makes no sense because they’re exactly like the missing child.” Betsy stood, hands on her hips as she stared up at the ceiling. “Most puzzling.”

“Will you stop blabbering on, Betsy,” Harry scolded his wife. “No one needs to hear about that nonsense. Mrs. Roberts, here, needs some cutlets and five of those pork chops. Giselle, see to it, will you?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Moss.” Giselle finished wrapping the sausage links, and then stretched out the butcher’s wrap on the scale that rested on top of the glass countertop, doing her best to control the shaking of her beige hands. Betsy’s story twisted knots in her stomach. The whole town was gossiping about it, the statue in the child’s bed, the parents’ grieving cries for their missing child, a child that would never return home. Never.

Giselle placed the cutlets in a pile on the paper, watching the needle on the scale measure the meat. As soon as Harry turned toward another customer, Betsy started right back in with her news, her voice a soft whisper. “It’s not natural, I tell you. Not natural at all. This is the third child to have been taken this way. This is nineteen-fifty-four. We’re supposed to be safer than ever now. What is going on with our world?”

Giselle just shrugged, choosing to keep her opinions to herself. She leaned up on her tiptoes to close the butcher’s paper, placing a piece of tape over the flap to keep it closed. As she did, she glanced out the front window of the butcher shop. The first thing she saw was her own reflection, her long, dark hair barely visible over the counter, her dark chocolate oval eyes set deep in her oval face, and her beige skin tone almost lost in the glass. Then, she saw the elf.

Her breath caught in her throat, her oval eyes going wide. He stood there, his arms crossed over his chest as he stared at her with his narrow, catlike eyes. The afternoon breeze tugged at his long, blond hair, revealing normal human ears, but she knew what he was; she could feel it. She always felt it.

Placing the package on the counter, she then spread out another sheet of paper. Reaching into the counter to the left of the scale, she counted out five pork chops and plopped them down on the paper. She knew why the elf was there, just as she knew he would appear sooner or later. She just didn’t think it would be this soon. She had only been in Brighton Cove for two months. How had he tracked her so fast? How did he even know she was here? She was careful. She was always careful.

She pulled the pork chops down from the scale, placing them on the counter, Betsy’s incessant natter ringing in her ears. Giselle wrapped the meat, taping the top flap of the paper when she was done. She needed to get out of there, to escape, but how?

As she handed Mrs. Roberts her purchases, she leaned over to Betsy and whispered, “Do you see that man in the front window? He’s just staring at us. Watching. Don’t you think that’s kind of creepy?”

Betsy glanced out the front of the store, spotting the man Giselle was looking at immediately. “He does seem to be casing the place. That’s what they call it—casing the place. I saw it on one of those murder mysteries on the television.” She took a deep breath as she gave a curt nod. “I’ll have Harry go see what he’s doing out there.” She left her spot behind the counter, going after her husband who was showing some cuts of beef to George Rickets from the Lions Club.

Giselle forced herself not to hold her breath while waiting for Harry to go out and confront the elf. She also forced herself not to bolt, her body trembling as her pulse thudded in her ears. She watched Harry walk through the store as she kept her hands busy filling out customers’ orders. As soon as Harry had the elf’s attention diverted, however, she ripped her apron off, tossing it on the floor, and ran out the back door. She needed to get out of town, but not yet; she couldn’t, not until night.

Not until she fed one more time. A knot twisted in her chest, knowing what she needed to do and dreading it.