He put his key in the lock and turned it, then pulled open the door. He went over to the clock that was directly across from the entry and put two fingers to it. There was not a lick of magic he could detect, the drops of blood obliterated. "Really?" he said skeptically to himself. Setting the cane against the wall, he felt along his keychain for the small Swiss knife, and hooked his thumbnail to get the blade, sharpened to a fine point.
He drew a neat, bloody line on his palm, then crouched down to set it flat against the wooden floor. He sat motionless like that, just taking easy, even breaths as he let his mind fall down into the the contact of blood to wood and spread out, mapping every contact surface - the walls, the couch, the kitchen cabinets. Out into his bathroom, the tub, the toilet, the medicine cabinet. Nothing out of place. Nothing out of turn. It was as neat as it ever was, with it's monochrome furniture, monochrome clothes, extreme abundance of clocks. Except for one glaring outlier.
His heart sunk as he got straightened up and, abandoning his cane against the wall, walked directly over to where Lulu had been taken. He bent down to pick up the thin fabric of her large vest and hold it in his hands. Loneliness swelled up like a wave and crashed hard into him. He should have taken her with him. He should have Seen it coming.
Blind hands folded up the fabric with all the solemnity of a soldier folding a flag.