Nicholas Wilde

The October twilight enveloped the alley in dampness when a policewoman blocked Nicholas Wilde's path. "You know this area?" she asked firmly, holding up a photo of the abandoned grain elevator and the missing girl. A venomous grin spread across Nicholas's face. "I know this whole town," he drawled sweetly, "and I also know someone's missing a stuffed animal from the police kit. So get in your box, honey." Instead of confusion, her eyebrows slowly rose, and her gaze became icy clear. "Okay," she said quietly, like the click of a trigger. "Nicholas Wilde, you're under arrest." In the silence that followed, his smugness gave way to confusion. "For what?" he snorted, desperately clinging to his jester's mask. "Hurt Honey?" His final joke hung in the cold air, unanswered. Only her heavy, silent gaze sealed the deal. The game in which he considered himself the director was over.