He haggardly struts through the snow, hands tucked in his pockets. The snowy forest becomes a blur as his eyes close. The man shakes his head to ward off sleep. Never would he have thought yearning for a bed would happen, until recently. He remembers back to the last night before that cursed monster broke into his villa. It has been one month since then. He has lost weight from eating what he could scavenge; his facial hair has grown thick and nappy. If not shivering from the cold, he'd shiver at the ticks and who knows what else nesting in his uncombed locks. He yearns for a bed. A hot shower. For someone to shave him bald so he could be free of the horrid itch. None of that will happen. Everyone he went to denied him sanctuary. They left him to die, yet he cannot blame them—if the situations were reversed, he would do the same. Except not for his daughter; he would open the gates of hell and plunge down there with the monster to protect her. At that thought, he doesn’t know why he’s running still. Even his daughter wrote a tearful letter of goodbye. He stops.

“I shall face my killer with dignity befitting a warlock,” he says. He pulls out his hands and stares at his frostbitten fingers, then at the large shadowy figure in the distance.

The snow melts away in the streets of Northern Georgia where death had Luther and Glaser on the job. A woman was discovered in a landfill, buried under piles of trash. One officer mentioned nobody could’ve smelled a difference, but rats had become an increasingly aggressive nuisance in the area. A pest control team was sent out to deal with the issue. They sprayed toxic fumes, killing them; after clearing out the lifeless pests, the sanitation workers discovered the mounds of trash’s secrets revealed shortly after—the chewed up body of the unknown person.

Those accounts tore at him, leaving a piece of his soul here at the grave of this woman's gruesome end. While asking more questions, Luther’s mind returns back to the old woman’s house, trying to find anything to keep the case warm, picking through what he can remember of the crime scene—I have to find something, too many women die brutal deaths. Too many testimonies are in the grave, he thinks to himself. A tap on the shoulder, a turn to his sandy-haired Irish-Jewish partner, Glaser.

“You okay?”

“Why you ask?” Luther responds.

The lanky man shrugs. Luther knew what his response will be—his partner doesn't need to say it. He could respond now; they've been partners for seven years now, the longest in their precinct for all the seasoned detectives, and it'll be like Glaser already knows everything just from the shrug.

“You ain’t smiling, that’s all. You’re the one who does all the smiling and comforting. I try my best. It’s hard to try my best when you’re moody.”

After hearing those words, he shows his partner the fakest smile so far. He's about to turn back around as Glaser shakes his head. He knows what his partner means, that’s how their dynamic works. No matter how many times he tried to put on that professional facade, he's back in the old woman's wrecked house. Her face mutilated. Luther calms himself—Professionalism, he says and repeats like a mantra.

“Who’d think the best way to get away with murder is to make a trash heap that nobody would care about?” asks Glaser, darkly edged voice.

“Who’d think our city would be this incompetent and people this indifferent? She didn’t have to die this way,” answers Luther, his voice sounding aloof.

“Her or the old woman?” Glaser asks his partner.

Luther looks at his partner and says, “does it matter?”

He watches Glaser nod then turn away—spends the rest of the investigation asking questions, doing everything to push that old woman’s face out of his mind. It’s been a month since that day. The news has long since forgotten about her; the public is onto the next sensational headline. Sometimes he feels alone in his waking moments with a dead woman as company. She’s with him at the crime scenes. Every victim, friend, or family fills a pit, and she’s making sure they sink together. He thought about taking a vacation to get away from it all—finally take his wife to Hawaii, where she always wanted to go since their honeymoon there five years ago. The thought of relaxing on the beaches with Claire does something to him. From thoughts of leisure, he considers therapy. A smile breaks the somber expression that held a monopoly on his face. Now he shows off a semblance of the smile that makes his witness statements the most detailed in the precinct. One glance at his scruffy-haired partner shows his body is more relaxed than mere moments ago. He’s right, he can’t try his best when I’m not doing my part. Sorry, Glaser.

They were on their way back to the station, discussing the evidence, contemplating motives, and his partner is busy Googling residences and businesses nearby while also already expounding on a theory that she may have been an illegal immigrant, possibly homeless—someone he claims can go missing without raising too much suspicion. He deduces rape at the fact she is missing underwear and her bra was found, looked to be torn off. Despite the grim talk, Luther’s smile is more jovial, because Glaser—not the one beaten down by bureaucracy and countless unsolved murders—speaks conviction and sorrow. Each word spoken sounds like he’s two steps away from naming the suspect. That passion fuels him, pushes away the image of the old woman, though she pushes back. As Luther comes up on the merge, he slows down the car.

“Going to take Claire to Hawaii next month. She’s been wanting to return since we left the hotel,” Luther spoke, after a proper merge on the highway.

“God, my Facebook will be filled with pictures of you two at a three-star hotel, living it up.”

Luther laughs, the first time in a month. The revelation prompts him to say, “thanks, Glaser. You got me out of that rut.”

Luther keeps his focus on the traffic, which seemed confused on whether it wants to be congested or not, didn’t see his partner’s uneasy shuffle. As the drive continued, the traffic finally learned what it wanted and cleared up. Their conversation steers away from grim to family as he turns the wheel to the exit ramp away. Glaser recounts how he and Latoya jumped up in the middle of the night at the sound of their newborn and collided headfirst. It was their first night since they brought Niall home that they got any sleep. Luther laughs, realizing his partner is working off four hours of sleep.

Nighttime, his wife lays asleep in his arms. Yet his head is turned to look at the impaled face at his side. She doesn't speak, she doesn‘t move. What she wants is obvious; they both want the same—I want to find the bastard who did it too, but it’s a cold one. Have fun haunting me.

Staggering, his last bit of strength is snuffed out of him. Three months he ran on, scavenging food, eating whatever animal he could catch raw, drinking any water he could scoop up. The man no longer resembles the once haughty noble he once was, who wore fine clothes and animal-skin shoes. These days he looks like those bums he once hated. But for him, he is more bones than meat.

Crawling, despite his failing strength, he desires escape. That is until a smash against his back, sending out a painful cry. Two giant hands slam down on his shoulders. Tears stream down his face. With no longer the will to fight, he does the one thing a former noble can do.

“Please, please, I had nothi—guuuaagh.”

The giant hands bend him backwards, cracking bones and shattering whatever else in the process. On his stomach, blood pours out from where the ribs stabbed through. He died instantly. The giant’s hand stabs through the chest and rips out the heart. Walks away saying no word.

—END OF CHAPTER 2—

He haggardly struts through the snow, hands tucked in his pockets. The snowy forest becomes a blur as his eyes close. The man shakes his head to ward off sleep. Never would he have thought yearning for a bed would happen, until recently. He remembers back to the last night before that cursed monster broke into his villa. It has been one month since then. He has lost weight from eating what he could scavenge; his facial hair has grown thick and nappy. If not shivering from the cold, he'd shiver at the ticks and who knows what else nesting in his uncombed locks. He yearns for a bed. A hot shower. For someone to shave him bald so he could be free of the horrid itch. None of that will happen. Everyone he went to denied him sanctuary. They left him to die, yet he cannot blame them—if the situations were reversed, he would do the same. Except not for his daughter; he would open the gates of hell and plunge down there with the monster to protect her. At that thought, he doesn’t know why he’s running still. Even his daughter wrote a tearful letter of goodbye. He stops.

“I shall face my killer with dignity befitting a warlock,” he says. He pulls out his hands and stares at his frostbitten fingers, then at the large shadowy figure in the distance.

The snow melts away in the streets of Northern Georgia where death had Luther and Glaser on the job. A woman was discovered in a landfill, buried under piles of trash. One officer mentioned nobody could’ve smelled a difference, but rats had become an increasingly aggressive nuisance in the area. A pest control team was sent out to deal with the issue. They sprayed toxic fumes, killing them; after clearing out the lifeless pests, the sanitation workers discovered the mounds of trash’s secrets revealed shortly after—the chewed up body of the unknown person.

Those accounts tore at him, leaving a piece of his soul here at the grave of this woman's gruesome end. While asking more questions, Luther’s mind returns back to the old woman’s house, trying to find anything to keep the case warm, picking through what he can remember of the crime scene—I have to find something, too many women die brutal deaths. Too many testimonies are in the grave, he thinks to himself. A tap on the shoulder, a turn to his sandy-haired Irish-Jewish partner, Glaser.

“You okay?”

“Why you ask?” Luther responds.

The lanky man shrugs. Luther knew what his response will be—his partner doesn't need to say it. He could respond now; they've been partners for seven years now, the longest in their precinct for all the seasoned detectives, and it'll be like Glaser already knows everything just from the shrug.

“You ain’t smiling, that’s all. You’re the one who does all the smiling and comforting. I try my best. It’s hard to try my best when you’re moody.”

After hearing those words, he shows his partner the fakest smile so far. He's about to turn back around as Glaser shakes his head. He knows what his partner means, that’s how their dynamic works. No matter how many times he tried to put on that professional facade, he's back in the old woman's wrecked house. Her face mutilated. Luther calms himself—Professionalism, he says and repeats like a mantra.

“Who’d think the best way to get away with murder is to make a trash heap that nobody would care about?” asks Glaser, darkly edged voice.

“Who’d think our city would be this incompetent and people this indifferent? She didn’t have to die this way,” answers Luther, his voice sounding aloof.

“Her or the old woman?” Glaser asks his partner.

Luther looks at his partner and says, “does it matter?”

He watches Glaser nod then turn away—spends the rest of the investigation asking questions, doing everything to push that old woman’s face out of his mind. It’s been a month since that day. The news has long since forgotten about her; the public is onto the next sensational headline. Sometimes he feels alone in his waking moments with a dead woman as company. She’s with him at the crime scenes. Every victim, friend, or family fills a pit, and she’s making sure they sink together. He thought about taking a vacation to get away from it all—finally take his wife to Hawaii, where she always wanted to go since their honeymoon there five years ago. The thought of relaxing on the beaches with Claire does something to him. From thoughts of leisure, he considers therapy. A smile breaks the somber expression that held a monopoly on his face. Now he shows off a semblance of the smile that makes his witness statements the most detailed in the precinct. One glance at his scruffy-haired partner shows his body is more relaxed than mere moments ago. He’s right, he can’t try his best when I’m not doing my part. Sorry, Glaser.

They were on their way back to the station, discussing the evidence, contemplating motives, and his partner is busy Googling residences and businesses nearby while also already expounding on a theory that she may have been an illegal immigrant, possibly homeless—someone he claims can go missing without raising too much suspicion. He deduces rape at the fact she is missing underwear and her bra was found, looked to be torn off. Despite the grim talk, Luther’s smile is more jovial, because Glaser—not the one beaten down by bureaucracy and countless unsolved murders—speaks conviction and sorrow. Each word spoken sounds like he’s two steps away from naming the suspect. That passion fuels him, pushes away the image of the old woman, though she pushes back. As Luther comes up on the merge, he slows down the car.

“Going to take Claire to Hawaii next month. She’s been wanting to return since we left the hotel,” Luther spoke, after a proper merge on the highway.

“God, my Facebook will be filled with pictures of you two at a three-star hotel, living it up.”

Luther laughs, the first time in a month. The revelation prompts him to say, “thanks, Glaser. You got me out of that rut.”

Luther keeps his focus on the traffic, which seemed confused on whether it wants to be congested or not, didn’t see his partner’s uneasy shuffle. As the drive continued, the traffic finally learned what it wanted and cleared up. Their conversation steers away from grim to family as he turns the wheel to the exit ramp away. Glaser recounts how he and Latoya jumped up in the middle of the night at the sound of their newborn and collided headfirst. It was their first night since they brought Niall home that they got any sleep. Luther laughs, realizing his partner is working off four hours of sleep.

Nighttime, his wife lays asleep in his arms. Yet his head is turned to look at the impaled face at his side. She doesn't speak, she doesn‘t move. What she wants is obvious; they both want the same—I want to find the bastard who did it too, but it’s a cold one. Have fun haunting me.

Staggering, his last bit of strength is snuffed out of him. Three months he ran on, scavenging food, eating whatever animal he could catch raw, drinking any water he could scoop up. The man no longer resembles the once haughty noble he once was, who wore fine clothes and animal-skin shoes. These days he looks like those bums he once hated. But for him, he is more bones than meat.

Crawling, despite his failing strength, he desires escape. That is until a smash against his back, sending out a painful cry. Two giant hands slam down on his shoulders. Tears stream down his face. With no longer the will to fight, he does the one thing a former noble can do.

“Please, please, I had nothi—guuuaagh.”

The giant hands bend him backwards, cracking bones and shattering whatever else in the process. On his stomach, blood pours out from where the ribs stabbed through. He died instantly. The giant’s hand stabs through the chest and rips out the heart. Walks away saying no word.

—END OF CHAPTER 2—