Rosalba
>>*And once i hear them clearly say / who, who are you really / and where are you going / i've got nothing left to lose / i've got nothing left to prove / see me bare my teeth for you / so who are you?*

*— or, rafael accuses francis of being a werewolf.*

His wounds were healing, and for that, he was grateful. There was so little needed to appease him. The doctor Olander patched him up real nice and he went regularly to get his stitches cleaned and his wounds re-bandaged. Over the last few weeks, the deepest parts of Rafael's body had begun to heal, and while he was patiently making his way through his recovery, prolonging it by his exacerbation of the self, there was still too much to be done.

Charlie Marsh had given him an ear - a disgusting concept, in theory, and that's why it sat in the evidence room for god-knows-how-long, waiting seemlessly for the moment that Rafael had it in him to go speak with Francis Estep. The pieces had all lined up - the tear of the werewolf's ear, the remaining lobe, the hat that Francis seemed to wear. Occasionally, Rafael had almost been caught looking at Francis, trying to memorize the pattern of his light-brown skin, trying to see if the thing in his jailhouse was a match.

And frankly, he thought it was.

_ _
That's why he makes his way to the Estep Apple Orchard today, his messenger bag hanging loosely across his body, the damning evidence inside. Rafael was not a stupid man, but he was not an educated one. No, see, everything was like a puzzle - easy to work around, connecting the dots. Francis' name had intentionally been left off of the board for now, and he's yet to decide if he should put it up. One of two things was going to happen today - either he was going to accuse Francis Estep of being a werewolf, and there was going to be no evidence that countered the evidence in his bag, and he was going to take action, or he was going to accuse Francis Estep of being a werewolf, and he would have an alibi and evidence that countered the claim, and Rafael was going to offer his sincerest apologies and head home.

Either way, the accusation was being made today.

_ _
The orchard was... *Big*. Now, admittedly, Rafael had known of the place since his arrival, even purchased some apples in the summer months, but he had never been. As the newly-knighted Sheriff, he had the right to be here on the grounds of a de facto subpoena; the warrant was held tightly in his hand, written and signed by the man holding it. He still followed the protocol down to the letter of the law, and as the highest (and, well, only) paragon of justice in the town, it was quick and efficient to get things done around here. As he crosses the near-mountainous threshold to the Orchard's main house, Rafael took several moments climbing the stairs, exhaling slowly once he got to the top of the porch. He adjusts his jacket, makes sure his sheriff badge was displayed on the front, and took the leap of faith to knock on the door.

Rafael is a good man, a discrete one — the knocks he offers are that of a neighbor, rather than the police, but protocol says he has to announce himself. "Mr. Estep," He calls through the door as soon as he's finished knocking. "It's Sheriff Aguilar Guerrero. I need you to open up, sir; this is official business."

He takes a step back from the door in case it swung out, and waited.
Edna
The knock at the orchard house stirs Francis from his mindless task: one he is reluctant to leave. He's clearing snow from the large glass panes of the greenhouse so the sun might reach the saplings within. It'd been a toss up for him, whether or not he would leave it there as insulation. The sun had already melted most of the winter's blanketing from the roof, and light was getting through. Heat was being generated, though only at high noon. Francis didn't like it. 

The next 10 years of apple production rested among the small, growing branches of the grafts within. They needed warmth. They needed tending. And so Francis shovels. 

*...Sheriff Aguilar Guerrero–*

– comes the warning. Reluctantly, Francis poses his shovel against the wall. He straightens his coat and tugs his hat down around his ears. As much as it is his first instinct to cause a scene here, intimidate the Sheriff off of his property, the last thing he needs in this town is another enemy. He thinks of Marianne and the upcoming election. He needs to keep his nose clean for her. Surely he can answer any question the Sheriff may have. He can be civilized. 

He makes his footsteps loud around the side of the house, clearing his throat as an extra precaution. No one likes being snuck up on. 
_ _

"Sheriff Guerrero," Francis calls, brightening his expression in a welcoming smile. The way he says the sheriff's name is a near recording of how the man has said it himself. Francis makes a convincing mimic; the surname sounds natural on his lips. This is a skill he has practiced. This is one of his *Most* Practiced skills: mirroring in an effort to construct kinship. 

"Official business, you say?" He asks, stepping closer, holding out his hand for Rafael to shake, in a manner of friendly greeting that is not standard for their acquaintance-level relationship. Whether or not Rafael accepts the handshake, Francis steps up beside him on the porch. 
"You know, my paw's always said that *Official business* Goes down easier over coffee. Come in, Sheriff." Francis' voice is smooth. Easy. It does not waver or betray his nervousness, because he is not nervous. Why should he be? He, and by extension the entire Estep family, is a friend of the Sheriff. Friends of the law! What apple brandy? 

Francis removes his coat and scarf, tucking his gloves into the coat pockets. He gestures to the coat rack for Rafael to discard his heavy clothes if he wishes. He leaves on his hat and he leaves on his boots, which track muddy slush across the kitchen as he begins to prepare coffee. 

"I hope you and the dogs fared well through the blizzard, Sheriff. Those winds gave us quite a fright here." 

_ _
Rosalba
Rafael is not a stupid man, but he is a kind one. Despite whatever airs or authorities a man like Francis Estep - intelligent, charismatic, calculated - is putting on, Rafael doesn't intend to treat him any differently than he was doing right now. So, when Francis comes around the side of the house, offers his hand, pronounces his name correctly, Rafael smiles, reaching out to shake his hand. The paperwork is held loosely in his hand, here, as Francis invites him in for coffee. The right thing to do would be to reject it; the kind thing to do would be to welcome it, and kind he is.

He enters the house, marvelling briefly at how pretty the interior of it is. His own cabin pales in comparison to something like this, but he supposes this is the result of many years of this orchard being the way that it is. (He notes the hat. Isn't it rude to wear a hat inside, especially to a man who's familiar with official business, *Especially* To a charismatic and practiced man? The warrant in his hand feels heavier.) Rafael lets out a low whistle, nodding with a smile. "You've got a beautiful house, *Senor Estep,*" Rafael compliments as they turn into the kitchen, watching the footprints leave behind a trail of something. Rafael himself dusted his own boots off on the porch before entering; perhaps he misunderstands completely what it is that the Esteps consider manners. Or perhaps he's been ruder in his time than he thinks - military men usually are.

_ _
"Ay," He rolls his eyes, laughing when Francis mentions the blizzard, "My dogs and I were trapped in the jailhouse for two days. *Más o menos,* Could have been worse, could have been better. I had access to food, and a warm stove, and a bed. So, really, it wouldn't have been any different than staying in my home. The only plus-side is that my mountain of paperwork is *Almost* All the way gone. The clerk that left town a bit ago, after the Sheriff Rowe incident, seemed to care little about organization - that, or she had a place for everything and none of it makes sense to me. Did you and yours end up alright?"

He sits at the table, his heavy coat abandoned on the coat rack at Frencis' gesture. He feels lighter, here, but it doesn't shake the feeling that something bad is about to happen. He's polite here, feet flat on the ground, hands on his knees. (The slush drives him up the wall; isn't the floor going to be ruined if that stays there like that?) "The coffee smells delicious," He adds at the end, nodding, "Thank you for the offer. I couldn't remember if I thanked you on the porch."
Edna
"*Grahseeahs.*" Francis thanks him for his compliment to the house, a less noble effort of Spanish than he'd managed for the Sheriff's name. Oh well. Can't win 'em all. 

The Sheriff is right to be perturbed by the slush Francis tracks around. The Estep son's house manners are a crack in his armor, so to speak. While he's been able to tailor most of his behaviors over the years to communicate nothing but utter control, there are some things that evade his notice. There are some behaviors so innate to him, and that fall in step so well with his instinctual disregard of decency, that he wouldn't even think to alter them. Cleaning his boots is one of those behaviors. Dotty would no doubt have something to say about the stains on the floor later on. 

The hat, on the other hand, is a different matter. Francis has earned some scars in the past few months that he'd rather not show off. Too bad there's no way to hide the chipped canine he'd suffered during the first time he'd been attacked. 

"That *Is* A plus!" Francis picks out the bright spot of Sheriff Guerrero's story. He places a sugar and creamer set onto a small tray on the table while the coffee percolates. Dotty would normally tend to guests in this way, but somehow, he's glad she's otherwise occupied with their parents. It leaves him an opportunity to make a good impression on the Sheriff. 

"We fared just fine. Ran out of wood early on, but we had a... Surprise house guest to help restock. That boy from the coal family. Noah Owens? Stumbled in here lost from a hunting trip. Gave him some warm clothes and a nice meal. Couldn't send him back out in the storm." It was frightening how easily Francis lies, sometimes. In this moment, he can almost convince himself he hadn't had his revolver pointed at Noah for the first few minutes of his arrival. He can almost convince himself that it was he, not Dotty, who made a case for the frozen man to stay. 
_ _

"No need to thank me, Sheriff Guerrero. It's the least I kin do for ya. We appreciate what ya done, steppin' inta the Sheriff's shoes after everything that's happened. Happy ta have a man like you watchin' over this town." Finally the coffee is done, and Francis pours two generous cups. He takes a seat opposite his guest. Perhaps opening the conversation to recent events isn't the smartest play, but Francis figures the Sheriff isn't here to discuss apples. Still, he says no more, only glances briefly at the paperwork that's found its way from the man's hand to the table. Francis doesn't entertain the idea that Rafael will miss the glance. Quite the opposite: he's hopeful it will launch them into the topic that his guest has come to pursue. 
_ _
Rosalba
Rafael listens, intently, smiling a bit as he turns and looks to Francis, hearing the highlights of his story. It always warms his heart when someone in Briar Ridge opens their arms up for another - and while the Esteps didn't *Have* To take Noah Owens in, he's grateful they did. He himself was locked in the Jailhouse with William Cooper - a breath is taken in, and then out. He knows the sins he's committed. He knows that come Sunday morning, he will need to go to the church and confess all that he's done to the Father God, to be forgiven for his inaction. His eyelids clench - he makes a note to find a flag for Mayor Cooper, to deliver to the children. They'll need one for the casket, or for the body if they cannot afford one. First Rowe, now Cooper - Rafael's metaphorical body count grows heavier and heavier, twisting in his gut like a knife.

The compliment is paid, the coffee is done, and now herein lies the moment of truth. He doesn't withdraw the damning evidence from the bag that he's slung over his shoulder, but his perceptive, investigative eye catches the paperwork at he's holding in his own hand, at the way Francis Estep looks at it. He would be a fool to not notice that that's a silent sign that the stakes are too high, that the air is too tense, and that the anxiety is too heavy for either man to carry anymore.

He takes the paper out of his own hand, unfolding it - in print letters, a shaky hand has typed blue ink into various spaces on a pre-written form, the verbiage of it implying it came from a much higher power than that of a Briar Ridge native, and is likely standard protocol for all sheriffs and deputies within Virginia:

``` COMMONWEALTH OF VIRGINIA
 WARRANT OF PERSONAL PROPERTY ACQUISITION

As invested to the powers of any SHERIFF or DEPUTY of BRIAR RIDGE, VIRGINIA, whereas a requisition from the leading law enforcement of BRIAR RIDGE, VIRGINIA for the PERSONAL PROPERTY of the affected party, FRANCIS ESTEP. This acquisition of personal property is considered lawful under the CIVIL FORFEITURE laws of the COMMONWEALTH OF VIRGINIA. Law enforcement will have the right to search and seize any property at the location of the ESTEP APPLE ORCHARD from the months of DECEMBER 1928 to FEBRUARY 1929, so long as it is enclosed in the listing below.

The accused, FRANCIS ESTEP, under the charge of CONSPIRACY and ACCESSORY TO MURDER, may willingly forfeit this property as included in the WARRANT AND AFFIDAVIT, and other papers as to be filed with the CITY OF BRIAR RIDGE and the COMMONWEALTH OF VIRGINIA. 

Now therefore, I do command the empowered parties to seize the following property from the ESTEP APPLE ORCHARD in order that he may be tried under the CITY OF BRIAR RIDGE and the COMMONWEALTH OF VIRGINIA for the crimes in which he is accused. 

In testimony whereof, I have hereof subscribed my hand and caused the seal of VIRGINIA to be affixed, this [???] of [???], 1929.

* ALL PERSONAL HEADGEAR AS UNWORN BY ANY PERSONS, MALE OR FEMALE
* ALL PERSONAL HEADGEAR AS STORED IN CELLAR OR ATTIC STORAGE
* THE HEADGEAR CURRENTLY WORN BY FRANCIS ESTEP AT THE TIME OF SERVING THIS WARRANT

SHERIFF RAFAEL AGUILAR GUERRERO
BRIAR RIDGE JAILHOUSE & LAW ENFORCEMENT```

" I have a warrant, son," Rafael nods, sliding the paper across the table for Francis to read. "For your hat."
Edna
There's something in him that appreciates the silence that follows the deliverance of the document– no fuss from Rafael and plenty of time for Francis to make some. He takes the page and watches the Sheriff for a good few seconds before turning down to read the words. 

Most of the legal jargon is lost on him, and for a few minutes his brow is creased hard in the act of translating what exactly Sheriff Guerrero wants with him and his *Estate.* 

The words `ACCUSED.` and `CONSPIRACY TO MURDER` mumble angrily from the paper, and they would have struck a great fear into Frans' heart if they weren't so God. *Damn.* 

Funny. 


Once he reaches the end of the document, Francis feels the corners of his mouth curl peevishly. Not that he means to laugh at the Sheriff, heavens no. He just means to laugh at the pretense of force laid out here and for what? Mama's bonnet? By the time he imagines his paw's old dusty riding helmet leaving the orchard house in an old apple crate, destined for interrogation at the jailhouse, he's cracking up. Thin squeaks of laughter peal from his grinning mouth. 

"Take my hat, Sheriff, by all means." He concedes, after blotting some of the tears from his eyes. He sighs a great sigh of composure, and thumbs the brim of his cap, tugging it center before pulling it off completely. He sets it on the table. 

"If ya liked it so much, Sheriff Guerrero, I coulda jus' sent away fer another! Didn't have ta go typin' this all up, throwin' murder around. *Shooooot.* Had me goin', sir, I'll give you that." Francis is still half laughing as he takes a delicate sip of coffee, and then shakes his head in good humored disbelief. 
_ _

Of course the Sheriff didn't come for his hat. He came to see the man's scars, which were on full view. Three rows of pink gashes disturbed the freckles on the left half of Francis' face, starting through his eyebrow and trailing to his jaw. Another gouge at his right temple is revealed in the light. Most starkly of all, though, is his right ear. The top half is missing. 

"You kin see now why I like ta wear it, Sheriff." He sighs, more gathered and somber now, "I got got. Three months in a row, out there. I haven't quite gotten used ta the look of my own face since then." Francis' eyes are cast down, and his expression is pitiable. This is a man who has always found great value and power in his good looks. His face has been a source of confidence and pride. Now, it's ruined. He looks at the hat on the table longingly, as though he feels too exposed without it. 

"You're doin' me a favor, I 'spose. These scars ain't goin' away." He points to his ear, "'n this ain't growin' back. Better I git used to the new looks without hidin' behind a hat." 
_ _
Rosalba
Francis laughs at him, and Rafael's face is as cold as stoic as it had been in the Army. Whatever semblance of comedy existed on the owner of the apple orchard's cheeks was but tragedy on the sheriff's. Instead, he watches as Francis removes his hat, and Rafael looks him over, nodding. Rafael, too, bears the scars of being mauled by the werewolves - he has a thick gash from the jaw down, and underneath his clothes, he bears damn-near vivisection marks across his ribs, his stomach, his waist. His arms and legs are covered in combat wounds — *Rafael Guerrero knows what it is like to be the victim, and he knows what it is like to be the survivor.*



"No, I know, son," Rafael says, and he uses the opportunity to take off his bag, now. Inside, he retrieves a pair of black leather gloves and a wrapped item no bigger than his palm. The wrapped item is placed on the table, and Rafael slides on the gloves, one after the other. "Truth be told, you'll find a lot of things in that warrant are me just attempting to cover my bases. I do have to say - making sure you covered your tracks is something Sheriff Rowe taught me upon meeting him. I suppose there's a laugh and a joke to be made about that, then. He hid his tracks so well from me that I didn't suspect him of being a wolf until it was too late."

Both gloves are on now, and Rafael holds the package in his left hand, beginning to unwrap it with his left. "So, Francis, you're actually very welcome to keep your hat. I suppose, in some way, it would be too cruel of me to ask you to give up the only thing you have to take back what the wolves took from you. I understand, you know; trying to decide if you're a murderer or a man because of what something or someone told you to do. And, really, all I wanted to do was get a look at you. So I could do this."

_ _
He finishes unwrapping the cheesecloth package, pulling out the other half of the tanned, freckled ear. Gloved hands hold it with some kind of precision, and really, Rafael is *So* Stunned that it hasn't become food for worms yet as he holds it up to the side of Francis' head, smiling when the grooves of one end of the flesh line up— well, *Somewhat* Appropriately with the grooves of the other kind of flesh. He tuts - and is that *Grief* That crosses the sheriff's face, as if perhaps he had been hoping and praying that he was *Wrong* This entire time? That the boy Estep could go back to his orchard and only hold a mild amusement for the Sheriff's outlandish claim?

But it wasn't. And Rafael's heart sat now next to his gut. 

"You better have a good explanation for this, son. Because I know what this was when it was found in the snow, and I know what it is now, and unfortunately, the evidence is stacked against you in a thousand different ways."
Edna
The Sheriff proves to be a tough crowd, but Francis clings to the route he's chosen to navigate the situation. The two men stare at each other across the table, and Francis decides it only seems right to read Rafael's scars, too. The one past his jaw is an obvious claw gash. He wonders which of the wolves put it there, taking a moment to wince at the brutality of the fact that he recognizes the mark of the beast so easily. It's an accessory worn by so many around town these days. 

Rafael brings up Sheriff Rowe, and Francis suffers a pang of loss. Noah was a good man. He was active and caring: a damn good leader to Briar Ridge when the Mayor had fallen so short. Francis hadn't wanted to believe the news that he'd been killed, and he mostly hadn't until he and his family were standing with bowed heads and clasped hands over a hole in the ground. 

Francis is lifted from memory by the strange and formal procedure of whatever Sheriff Guerrero is doing in his bag. It pairs well with the typed out warrant, but all in all, it's a combination that makes Francis uneasy despite his best efforts. 

*I understand,* He says, *Trying to decide if you're a murderer or a man.*

He doesn't like what the Sheriff is implying. And he does *NOT* Like what comes out of that parcel. 

"*Jesus fucking Christ,*" He hisses, flinching away violently from the scrap of flesh Rafael extends to his face. Rafael apparently gets the answer he's looking for, and Francis nearly tips over his chair in the process. He remains standing, assuming a defensive posture, even once Rafael pulls back.
_ _

"It's sick, is what it is. And what *Was* It, Sheriff? Was it half a goddamn ear then, too? God alive." He stands a little straighter following his outburst. He shakes his head and takes a sharp breath in. 

"I bet I know where you found it. Outside the Ol Davis Ruins, huh?" His eyes get a hardened look about them, "That's where I got attacked the third time. With the volunteers. I was standin' guard for the project there. Had one of my cuts from the second attack pop back open while I was on post– moved my arm too fast movin' a crate a supplies. Started bleedin' like a stuck pig." Francis looks down to the spot on his elbow where the stitch had ripped, right where he has his sleeve rolled up to. The skin there is still gnarled and pink, tough with scar tissue as it always would be. 

"We weren't keepin' no first aid around there just yet, 'n I ran home ta find somethin' ta stop the blood." His voice got quiet, reflective, "Thought I'd be safe. Just a quick shot home. But one of 'em got me. Tore my ear. Got some new slashes 'round back of my head." He turns his face to the wall to show Rafael that the scars extend from his missing ear to the back of his skull where his hair still hasn't grown back. 
"I managed to git away, but just barely." Francis takes the pause to sit back down again. His eyes are caught on a knot of wood grain in the table top and inside his mind he's somewhere else, making his way up the deer path to the orchard. 
"I been keepin' to the orchard ever since. Stayin' 'round here, posted up in case somethin' comes for mama 'n paw. Or Dotty."
_ _
Rosalba
Of course Francis rejects the notion that he's a werewolf, but Rafael isn't convinced. He listens, intently, at Francis' half-baked alibi. But there's already so much at stake that Rafael can't afford to fall back now. His captain once told him that if he was going to see something, he had to see it through to the end. He remains sitting, for now, and analyzes Francis' posture. "Goddamnit, son, *Look* At me!" He says, and he rises, too, matching Francis' intensity and his expression; they are both scarred, mangled men, both fighting some sort of rural sequel to a war that Rafael did not sign up to fight yet had to anyways.

"I know you ain't stupid, son," Rafael says, pointing to him, and then back to himself, "And I know *You know* That I ain't either. I do, however, know a couple things about field medicine, and *This?* Your *Ear?* Should have been *Worm food by now,* Francis. Don't think I ain't stupid. I know how men in packs play; I know that when there are colliding minds, that there's infighting. I've seen that big white wolf run 'round here, I've heard of the things it does to the others like it. I know that when infighting starts, it's because of a change of *Morals.* And while I don't know whether or not you've got control of yourself when you do it, *I know* What *I know.* So walk with me for a bit, won't you?"

_ _
He wraps the ear up, leaving it on pseudo-display on the table between the mugs of coffee, a grotesque notion of acknowledgement that Rafael doesn't intend to change his stance. *Look at this,* It says in its existence, *An object of the monster I know you have become.* "So, you're attacked - a horrible thing to happen, and you have my condolences. It's almost like I know a thing or two about something. You're attacked multiple times, which is damn near unlucky for you, and as a result, you are put away for some time. What was it, son, a few weeks? Maybe a month? But then, you put yourself back together to maintain some kind o' public image, ain't that right? I gave my body that same fuckin' treatment, and look at where the two of us are — you, healed, scarred, just fine. Underneath these clothes I got bleedin' gauze, *Mijo,* Ones that I'm gonna have to go change when I get home."

"And now, you're up here by yourself every month, with only your family. People who, I suspect, would agree with you in their entirety if I asked them of your whereabouts on the full moon. Not in one of the safehouses, not with the coalition — not even with the hunting group you once stood alongside to fight back against these wolves. No, Francis, instead *You* Are up *Here,* In this *House,* By yourself, with an iconclad alibi in your family's mouths." And perhaps if Justice could take a form, it wouldn't look like the blind woman with wings holding the scales of balance; no, instead, if Justice could take a form, perhaps it would look like a man with a gaze and fury defiant. Perhaps it would look like a man who does not speak with *Accusation* In the way that one might accuse a man of a crime but instead an *Accusation* A father might make of a son who is about to ruin his life.

_ _
He makes a motion with his fingers to bring Francis' gaze towards him. If and when their eyes lock, Rafael lowers his tone of voice, a slow breath following. "And now... You are the white wolf that is infighting with the others. You're the wolf that, for some reason, doesn't attack citizens all the time... But instead... Its packmates. Isn't that right? The soul of some kind of man is still inside of you, in some ways, and for some reason or fuckin' another, *You* Are dealin' with bloodshed. And if I had to make an educated guess, you chased one of your hellhound peers out through the back of the Ruins, *Where you weren't,* And that's where you lost your ear. And due to a combination of the snow and whatever crackpot healin' the wolves have that make them not bear the bullet holes we put into 'em, it's now sitting on your dinin' room table. And I'm stand here, makin' the accusation."

He lets this hang in the air for a good, long while, a dolorous bell overhead: he doesn't intend to put any more evidence down, his chips accented by his bluff — that the ear belonged to the white wolf, that the white wolf lost its ear, that Francis Estep lost his ear, that Francis Estep *Is* The white wolf. "Francis, I'm not tryin' to hurt you, son. I'm tryin' to *Save* You. Just like I wished I could have saved Noah Rowe. My oath to Briar Ridge is to protect *All* Of her people, and that includes those afflicted with this *Shit.* And if you are what I think you are... I need you to tell me the truth, son. If you don't... This is gonna happen *Again* And *Again.* And what happens when it's your girl in someone else's maw, and you're not there to stop them, because you're 'posted up around here making sure nothin' comes for your kin'?"

A tilt of the head. "So, what's it gon' be, Francis? You gon' give me a real reason, or should I give back the piece of you you lost in the war? Huh?" He reaches into his pocket, taking out a silver crucifix. "You wanna settle this here and now?"
Edna
`Content warning: gaslighting.`

Rafael asks Francis to look, and he does. *Some men,* He thinks, *Command attention. Others have to ask.* The sheriff fell into the latter category. He holds his tongue, until he can't anymore, and he laughs. 

"Do you *Hear* Yourself Sheriff? I mean really, do you understand what you're saying to me? You're makin' enough guesses 'n bets ta turn this kitchen into a casino." Francis' smirk dies down, not because the situation has lost its comedic value, but because he feels sorry for the man in front of him, so furiously grasping at loose ends. The sheriff's hands are rope-burnt and trembling. It's a sad thing. 

The sloppily wrapped ear on the table nearly sets Francis off again. What if Dotty were to walk in? His paw? But there's no time to ask for decency. Rafael did not come here with that in mind.

Rafael walks Francis through a feeble rehashing of the last few months' events, and Francis stays quiet, a crease in his brow. He even nods a couple times to throw the sheriff a bone. After a few moments of silence following the string of accusations, rage simmering quietly behind Francis' eyes, he answers carefully. 

"I don't mean to insult what you know, Sheriff. It's what you mean to assume that's got me a little angry." He admits, his eye contact with the sheriff unwavering. 
_ _

"You mean to assume what's under my own clothes. You mean to assume there ain't bandages there. You mean to assume– what? That I would choose to put myself out for wolf food *Again* Instead of stay and protect my own family?" All that he truly wants to say goes unsaid. Painting himself a villain in the eyes of a man who believes him to be one will not turn out well, this Francis understands. If the playing field were even, he would go on: *And where were you this past moon, Sheriff? Weren't you keeping nice and warm in that jailhouse?* Francis knows things, too. 

He *Hates* The way Rafael speaks to him. 
He *Hates* The misplaced confidence of the man. 
He *Hates* How he keeps demanding Francis' eyes like he truly believes he is owed the attention; like he believes a badge and a warrant can buy respect.

It's all Francis can do to keep from shaking in his rage, reminding himself to relax his jaw and keep his fists uncurled. Rafael claims to know Francis isn't stupid. Why, then, is he speaking down to him in such a way? Why is he helping himself to step into the role of father, in Francis' parents' own home? The color of blood begins to edge like a sick fog into the corners of Francis' vision. 

"My soul is nothin' but a man's, sheriff." He finally says, "And there's nothin' in your voice, in your *Story* That means to save me or whoever you think is important to me. I can save all that on my own." The pauses between his sentences are long. He needs the time to neatly pick his words clean of vitriol as they line up patiently behind his teeth. He releases them carefully, thoughtfully, once they are properly preened. 
_ _

"Your warrant has been served, sir. Come back to me with another, if you've got more business in my home. Come back to me with proof, and I'll entertain you again." He looks down pityingly at the silver cross in the sheriff's hand, and then back up to the man's face. He shakes his head slowly. 
"I've given you the truth. I've shown you respect. If you're lookin' ta *Save me* As you say you are, show me the same, Sheriff." 
_ _
Rosalba
Game. Set. Match.



"You're absolutely right, Mr. Estep," Rafael says, holding up both hands. He collects the ear, wrapping it properly in the cheesecloth and settling it on the table. Rafael doesn't need it anymore — he fears the day it will start to deteriorate, and stink up his evidence room. Besides — he is a stern, mean man, but he is not a man who is actively trying to break the spirit of his fellow man. Beast or otherwise, Francis Estep does have the rights to every piece of him... *Including the pieces not attached to him.*

_ _
"I'll come back with a warrant for your arrest," He says, clear as day, a smile on his lips that seems to clash thoroughly against the newly-forming grey in his beard. (That wasn't there prior to Noah Rowe's death, he'd like to add, as if the long nights and the world at war around him hasn't been enough to stain the worst parts of him premature.) "But I want you to remember, that at the end of this, I was willin' to help you. And when the peat moss takes other parts of you... I pray to God-on-High that you let me help you then."

He collects his bag, taking the warrant off of the table and ripping it in half. Turning over his shoulder, he waves his hand, sighing softly. "Thank you for the coffee, Mr. Estep, but I'll be on my way. With spring coming around the corner, I'd be a fool to take up any more of your precious time preparing the crop. I'll be sure to pick up a bushel — *Basket? What have you* — when they're ripe this season."

The door closes behind him.

The way the house rings in his absence sounds too much like a funeral bell.