CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Sheila's hands gripped the steering wheel tightly as she navigated the empty streets of Coldwater. The clock on the dashboard read 11:48 PM, but she felt wide awake, adrenaline coursing through her veins. Finn sat beside her, his face illuminated by the glow of his phone as he scrolled through the preliminary report on their latest victim.

Another young woman, another life cut short. The weight of responsibility pressed down on her shoulders, threatening to crush her.

They turned onto Maple Street, and Sheila's stomach clenched at the sight of the flashing police lights up ahead. The quiet residential area had been transformed into a bustling crime scene, with uniformed officers milling about and neighbors in bathrobes watching from their porches.

As Sheila parked the car, she took a deep breath, steeling herself for what lay ahead. She'd seen death before, more times than she cared to count, but it never got easier. Each victim was a person with dreams and loves and a future that had been brutally snatched away.

"You ready?" Finn asked softly.

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

They ducked under the yellow crime scene tape, flashing their badges at the officer standing guard. The front yard of a modest two-story house was bathed in harsh floodlights, casting long shadows across the manicured lawn.

Sheriff Hank Dawson stood on the front porch, his normally jovial face drawn and pale. As Sheila and Finn approached, she could see the slight tremor in his hands as he clutched his coffee cup.

"Sheriff," Sheila said. "What have we got?"

Dawson took a shaky breath. "It's bad, Stone. Real bad. I've never seen anything like it."

His words sent a chill down Sheila's spine. Dawson was a veteran cop, not easily shaken. If this scene had rattled him...

"Mind taking us through it?" Finn asked.

Dawson nodded, visibly pulling himself together. "Victim is Emily Davis, twenty-eight years old. Neighbor called it in. Said she saw a strange figure leaving the house and went over to check on Emily. That's when she found, well…" He trailed off, his eyes haunted.

"Did the neighbor get a good look at the figure?" Finn asked.

Dawson shook his head. "Not really—it was too dark. But that was part of what made it suspicious: He didn't turn on the porch light, and when he got to his vehicle down the road, he drove away without even turning the headlights on."

He held up a hand, as if predicting Finn's next question. "And no, she didn't get a good look at the vehicle, either. She thought it could've been an SUV, but she wasn't sure."

Finn nodded, but it was clear from the look on his face he was disappointed.

Sheila placed a comforting hand on Dawson's shoulder. "We'll take it from here, Sheriff. Why don't you get some air?"

As Dawson retreated, Sheila and Finn entered the house. The interior was a stark contrast to the peaceful exterior. The entryway was a chaos of overturned furniture and shattered picture frames. A trail of blood led from the living room to the kitchen.

Sheila's eyes followed the trail, her heart heavy with the knowledge of what she'd find at its end. The kitchen was brightly lit, emphasizing the horror of the scene. Emily Davis lay crumpled on the floor, her red hair matted with blood.

Dr. Jin Zihao, the county coroner, looked up as they entered. "Deputies," he said solemnly.

"What can you tell us, Doc?" Finn asked.

Zihao gestured to the body. "Cause of death appears to be blunt force trauma to the head and upper body. Multiple impacts, suggesting a frenzied attack. Weapon was likely cylindrical, possibly a—"

"Candlestick," Sheila finished, her voice tight. Just like the others.

Zihao nodded. "Preliminary time of death is between nine-thirty and ten-thirty pm. I'll know more after the autopsy."

As Zihao continued his examination, Sheila began to survey the room. Her trained eye picked out details others might miss. A broken necklace lay near the victim's hand, its crystal pendant glinting under the harsh lights. A half-empty mug of tea sat on the counter, still faintly warm to the touch.

"She let him in," Sheila murmured. "There's no sign of forced entry. She knew her killer, or he found some way to gain her trust."

Finn nodded. "If he was in disguise..."

Sheila's gaze fell on a corkboard hanging on the wall. It was covered in colorful flyers and business cards. 'New Age Healing Center,' one proclaimed. 'Aura Readings by Madame Zara,' said another.

"Finn, look at this," she said. "Looks like Emily was into New Age spirituality."

"Laura and Sophie were devout, Rachel was an atheist, and now we learn Emily was New Age," Finn murmured. "Maybe religion has nothing to do with it."

As they examined the board, a soft voice spoke from behind them. "She was always searching for meaning."

Sheila turned to see a young woman standing in the doorway, her eyes red-rimmed from crying. "I'm sorry, you are...?"

"Lisa Pritchard," the woman replied. "I'm...I was Emily's best friend. The officers said I could come in to answer some questions."

Sheila nodded, gesturing for Lisa to take a seat at the kitchen table, carefully positioning her away from the gruesome scene on the floor. "Can you tell us about Emily?"

Lisa took a shaky breath. "Em was...she was amazing. So full of life, you know? Always looking for the beauty in everything. That's why she loved working at the gallery."

"And her interest in New Age beliefs?" Finn asked. "When did that start?"

"Oh, that." Lisa gave a watery chuckle. "Em was always exploring different spiritual paths. Said she was looking for her 'true calling.' Last month it was crystals, before that it was tarot cards. She was curious about everything. Sometimes led to some… interesting conversations with visitors at the gallery."

"What do you mean by 'interesting'?" Sheila asked.

Lisa shrugged. "Well, you know how art can be. People see different things in it. Emily loved discussing interpretations with visitors, especially if they had a spiritual or mystical bent to them. She'd talk for hours about the energy she felt from certain paintings or sculptures."

Finn leaned forward slightly. "Did she ever mention any particular visitors who shared her interests? Maybe someone who came by frequently?"

Lisa furrowed her brow, thinking. "There were a few regulars, but no one stands out. Oh, wait—there was this one guy. Came in a couple of times last month. Emily said he had some fascinating theories about sacred geometry in art."

Sheila's pulse quickened. "Can you describe this man?"

"I never met him myself," Lisa admitted. "Emily just mentioned him in passing. Said he was middle-aged, kind of intense. But that describes half the art enthusiasts who come through the gallery, to be honest."

Sheila nodded, trying to hide her disappointment. Another vague description, another potential lead that seemed to fade away as soon as they grasped it.

"Did Emily ever mention feeling uncomfortable or threatened by anyone?" Finn asked. "At the gallery or in her personal life?"

Lisa shook her head emphatically. "No, never. Emily was...she was a light, you know? She saw the good in everyone. Even when people were rude or dismissive at the gallery, she'd just say they were having a bad day and try to cheer them up."

Sheila exchanged a glance with Finn. Emily's open, trusting nature might have made her an easy target for their killer.

"One last question, Lisa," Sheila said. "Did Emily mention any new spiritual practices or beliefs recently? Anything out of the ordinary for her?"

Lisa thought for a moment. "Not really. I mean, she was always trying new things, but nothing stood out. Last time we talked, she was excited about some meditation techniques she'd learned. Said they were helping her connect with her 'higher self' or something like that."

Sheila nodded, realizing they weren't going to get any new leads from this conversation. "Thank you, Lisa. You've been very helpful. If you think of anything else, anything at all, please don't hesitate to call us."

As Lisa left, Sheila felt a wave of frustration wash over her. They were no closer to understanding why Emily had been targeted or how she connected to the other victims. The Coldwater Confessor's motives remained as opaque as ever.

"What's going on in your mind?" Finn asked, his voice low.

Sheila shook her head, frustration evident in every line of her body. "I don't know, Finn. I can't see the pattern. The only things connecting Emily to the others are her age and gender. It's like...it's like he's changing his MO."

"Or we never really understood it in the first place," Finn suggested.

Sheila's heart sank. Had they been wrong all along? Were they chasing shadows while the real killer slipped through their fingers?

Finn must have noticed her reaction, because he shook his head regretfully. "I shouldn't have said that," he said, touching her arm. "We'll find him, Sheila, one way or the other. Don't start doubting yourself now."

Sheila nodded, but she didn't take any consolation from his words. She felt like she was drifting, lost in a sea of conflicting evidence and dead ends.

"I can't help but feel like I'm failing, Finn," she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. "Four women are dead. Four lives cut short, and we're no closer to catching this bastard than we were when we started."

She ran a hand through her hair, frustration evident in every movement. "I keep thinking about their families, about the fear spreading through Coldwater. People are looking to us for answers, for protection, and what do we have to show for it? Nothing but more bodies and more questions."

Finn started to speak, but Sheila held up a hand, stopping him. "I know what you're going to say. That we're doing our best that these things take time. But every minute we spend chasing our tails is another minute the killer has to plan his next move."

She looked around the crime scene, her eyes lingering on the shattered remnants of Emily's life. "I can't shake the feeling that I'm missing something obvious. That if I were a better detective, a better leader, we'd have caught him by now."

The weight of her perceived failure seemed to physically pull her down, her shoulders slumping. "I need some air," she said abruptly. "I need...I need to clear my head."

"Sheila, wait—" Finn started, but she was already moving.

"I just need some space, Finn," she called over her shoulder. "I'll be back soon."

With that, Sheila walked off into the night, haunted by the ghosts of the past.