You enter the cellar and step down the short, wooden stairs to the dank basement. Even being in your own house doesn't lessen the fear of descending the narrow staircase and that trapped feeling. Dim light shines through a rectangular window pane on the far side of the room. Shadows flash past the window, given life by the sound of heavy clomping footsteps. You fetch a shovel and bucket and return upstairs.
No squirrel.
You cross the kitchen and scan the floor—a smear of blood lies diagonally where the body used to be, with a scant patch of gray-and-brown fur embedded in the dark stain. The kitchen door leading to the back porch bangs shut.