Ferd pulled out the letters he'd stuffed away and began rifling through them.
"James, James." He muttered to himself, "Ah!" He pulled a letter out of the group. There is was, written in bold across the folded partchment.

"James Anderson," He read aloud, and meant to continue but noticed the man was holding out his ID for inspection. Ferd found the man's compliance refreshing, he'd half expected him to refuse the way the boxer had. Reaching for the James' ID Ferd noticed the man's almost submissive countenance. Almost in opposition to Ambrose's fierce warrior like pride, James' gave off what Ferd could only think of as an aura of meek compliance. The smile he gave Ferd clearly came naturally to the man, sealing Ferd's initial thoughts. Whatever the man's reasons, it seemed clear that he made a habit of avoiding conflict. Ferd decided that was enough to know for now, but he made a mental note to observe the man further. If he was simply a pacifist that was more or less fine, but if he was a coward, well that could be a problem.

Ferd made a show of looking over the man's ID, feeling a need to show the man a measure of curtosy after his very polite and compliant response to Ferd's demands. It had only taken a moment for Ferd to decide it looked real enough, but he lingered for a moment, choosing to make note of certain details in case they came up later. Ferd found it payed live up to parts he played, as it kept him from being caught with his pants down.

Handing the ID back and pocketing the letters again, Ferd commented, "Wakefield Springs eh? I've spent a fair amount of time in Maine but I've never heard of Wakefield. What part is that in?" Ferd's voice had taken on a congenial tone again, and his posture had relaxed again. Everyone seemed authentic. Maybe this would turn out to be a relaxing case. He had multiple people to work with, and the atmosphere had lightened considerably. Maybe Ferd would even enjoy himself this time. Perhaps there was no reason to worry after all.

 Upon finishing that thought the hair stood up on the back of his neck. Ferd felt dread grip at his stomach. That wasn't a good sign. Ferd had long ago learned to trust his instincts, and the small impressions he often received. He'd found they kept him alive more often than not. Occasionally he'd been called psychic, and told he had some sort of sixth sense. Ferd disagreed, or if he did have a sixth sense, then he was sure all humans had the same sense. Most just don't know what to do with the information that sense gave them. To Feed things as simple as the hair standing up on his neck were his brains way of interpreting information that sixth sense fed it. So what was he sensing? 

  Just then he was reminded of the only blatantly strange thing he'd seen so far. Taking care to ensure his countenance didn't change, Ferd casually looked over his shoulder ever so briefly. The dread he'd begun feeling cemented in the bottom of his stomach as he returned his gaze to the group. The image painted on the kitchen window was gone. A turmoil of thoughts and emotions began whirling in Ferd's mind. He didn't know why it was gone, or if that was what had caused the feeling of unease he'd received. The only thing he was certain of was that he'd been wrong. He should most definitely be worried.