CHAPTER TEN

Sheila and Finn stood outside the abandoned warehouse, its rusted metal exterior looming against the morning sky. The building was silent and unmoving against the bustling backdrop of the city behind it. A cool breeze rustled through the overgrown weeds surrounding the structure, carrying with it the faint scent of decay and neglect.

Sheila took a deep breath, trying to calm her nerves. She glanced at Finn, seeing the same mixture of anticipation and apprehension in his eyes that she felt herself.

"You ready?" Finn asked, his hand resting on his holstered weapon. His voice was steady, but Sheila could detect a hint of tension underneath.

She nodded, her jaw set with determination. "Let's do this."

They'd called for backup before arriving, a decision that now seemed prescient as they faced the imposing structure. Several patrol cars surrounded the perimeter, officers positioned at every exit. If anyone was inside, they weren't getting out unnoticed. The presence of their colleagues provided a small measure of comfort, but Sheila knew that ultimately, it would come down to her and Finn.

As they approached the main entrance, a large sliding door that had clearly seen better days, Sheila couldn't help but think about the events that had led them here. Blake's confession, Sophie's murder, the mysterious text message—it all seemed to converge on this desolate location.

The door groaned in protest as they forced it open, the sound violent in the quiet morning air. The interior was dim, shafts of sunlight filtering through dirty windows and holes in the roof, creating an eerie dance of light and shadow.

"CCSD! Anyone here?" Sheila called out, her voice echoing in the cavernous space. No response came, but the silence that followed seemed almost alive, pregnant with possibility.

The air was thick with dust and the musty smell of neglect, making her wish she had brought a mask. Every creak of the floorboards, every distant rustle, made her heart pound a little faster. She was acutely aware of her own breathing, loud in the stillness of the warehouse.

They moved cautiously through the space, flashlights sweeping across abandoned machinery and piles of debris. As Sheila's eyes adjusted to the dim light, she began to make out more details of their surroundings.

The warehouse appeared to have once been a textile factory. Large, rusted looms stood silent sentinel in neat rows, their intricate mechanisms frozen in time. Spools of thread, some still partially wound, lay scattered across workbenches and floors. In one corner, bolts of faded fabric leaned haphazardly against the wall, their patterns barely discernible under a thick layer of dust.

Overhead, a complex system of pulleys and conveyor belts crisscrossed the ceiling, testament to the efficient production line that once thrummed with activity here. Now cobwebs draped from the machinery like ghostly banners, swaying gently in the drafts that whispered through the dilapidated building.

As they delved deeper into the warehouse, the silence became oppressive. Sheila found herself straining to hear any sound that might indicate another presence, but there was nothing but the occasional groan of the building settling and their own cautious footsteps.

"Look at this," Finn said, his voice startlingly loud in the quiet. He was pointing to a cleared area near the center of the building. "Someone's been here recently."

Sheila examined the space, her flashlight beam cutting through the gloom. The floor was relatively clean, free from the layer of dust that covered everything else. In the center sat a folding chair and a small table, incongruous in their ordinariness amidst the abandoned industrial setting.

She tried to imagine Blake standing here, a duffel bag of money in his hand, his heart probably racing as fast as hers was now. What had he been thinking? If he had made it here on time, would he ever have made it out alive?

"This must be where the killer planned to meet Blake," she said.

"And then what?" Finn asked, voicing the question that was on both their minds. "At that point, he can't just let him go."

Sheila shrugged. "Then he kills Blake."

"Why? To cover his tracks? Or does he really need the money?"

Sheila was about to answer when she noticed something: an object hanging from a nail tacked to a corkboard.

A rosary, its beads worn and the crucifix slightly tarnished.

"He was here, alright," Sheila murmured. "And I think he wants us to know it."

***

"So we've got two women murdered by a man posing as a priest, and a rosary left at a warehouse where a politician who was being blackmailed was supposed to drop off one hundred grand in cash. Am I tracking so far?"

Hank Dawson, Coldwater County's interim sheriff after the death of Natalie, leaned back in his chair and regarded Sheila and Finn with a thoughtful frown. He was a stout man with a neatly trimmed mustache that failed to disguise his cherubic face.

"That's about right," Sheila said.

"What are we dealing with, then? Some kind of religious fanatic?"

"We're not sure," Finn said. "Could be punishing the victims for infidelity. Maybe someone in his life cheated on him, and now he's on a crusade to punish others."

Hank sighed, rubbing his temples. "I don't like this, not one bit. A killer with a possible religious motive...that's gonna stir up all kinds of trouble in the community."

He stood up, pacing behind his desk. "You two have no idea the kind of pressure I'm under. The mayor's breathing down my neck, demanding results. The press is circling like vultures, and now everything with Thomas Blake…" He shook his head woefully. "There's no keeping this under wraps now."

Sheila could see the worry in Hank's eyes. He was a good man, dedicated to the town, but she knew he was out of his depth with a case like this. She felt a pang of sympathy for him, thrust into a role he hadn't asked for and wasn't fully prepared to handle.

"Any idea whether this guy's really a priest?" Hank asked.

"There's something else, sir," she said, her voice grave. "We learned from the bartender at Chester's that Sophie left with a man claiming to be a priest. We don't know if it's connected, but..."

"Not yet," Finn said. "But given that no one at St. Michael's seems to know about him, we have to consider the possibility that it's just a ruse."

Hank collapsed back into his chair. "This just keeps getting better and better. What's your next move?"

Sheila exchanged a glance with her partner before answering. "We think it might be worth talking to Father Stephen again, see if he knows anybody by the name of Wayland."

"Wayland?"

"According to James Hastings," Finn said, "that's the name of the priest his wife was meeting with."

Hank nodded slowly. "Alright, that sounds like a good plan. But tread carefully, you two. We don't want to cause a panic or start pointing fingers at the religious community without solid evidence."

"Understood, sir," Sheila said.

Hank sighed, running a hand through his thinning hair. "And keep me in the loop. I need to know everything that's happening, no matter how small it might seem. We can't afford any surprises, not with this case."

Sheila and Finn nodded and left the office, both lost in thought as they made their way through the station. The buzz of activity around them seemed distant to Sheila, muffled by the gravity of their task.

As they stepped outside the police station, they were immediately bombarded by a group of reporters who had been lying in wait.

"Deputy Stone! Deputy Mercer!" A young woman with a microphone thrust it toward them. "Is it true that the 'Coldwater Confessor' has struck again?"

Sheila blinked, taken aback. "I'm sorry, the what?"

"The Coldwater Confessor," another reporter said. "That's what people are calling the killer. Is it true he's targeting sinners? Is this a religiously motivated series of murders?"

Finn cleared his throat. "We're in the midst of an ongoing investigation and can't comment on specifics. We urge the public to remain calm and report any suspicious activity to the police."

"But Deputy," a third reporter pressed, "sources say you found religious artifacts at the latest crime scene. Can you confirm this?"

Sheila felt a surge of frustration. How had that information leaked? "As my partner said, we can't comment on an active investigation. Now, if you'll excuse us..."

They pushed their way through the crowd, reporters still shouting questions at their backs. When they finally reached their vehicle, Sheila slumped against the door, exhaling heavily.

"'Coldwater Confessor'?" she muttered. "Great. Just what we need: a catchy name to whip everyone into a frenzy."

Finn nodded grimly as he unlocked the car. "You know how it goes: The press loves a good serial killer story. We'd better solve this fast, because if we don't…this town is going to eat itself alive."