CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

As Sheila walked, she pulled out her phone, her fingers hovering over her dad's number. She needed to hear his voice, to draw strength from his unwavering support. But when she dialed, it went straight to voicemail.

Hey, this is Gabriel Stone. Leave a message, and I'll get back to you as soon as I can.

Sheila listened to her father's gruff voice, finding a small measure of comfort in its familiar cadence. She thought about leaving a message but decided against it. What could she say? That she was failing? That she needed help? She ended the call without speaking.

As she continued her aimless wandering, Coldwater seemed to transform around her. The quaint storefronts and familiar landmarks took on a sinister aspect in the late-night gloom. Shadows lengthened, reaching out like grasping fingers. Every alley could be hiding a killer, every darkened window concealing a victim.

Guilt gnawed at her insides. Four women were dead, and she felt responsible for each one. If she'd been smarter, faster, better, maybe they'd still be alive. She'd been so close to catching the killer at the theater, but she'd squandered that opportunity.

Her thoughts drifted to Natalie, as they often did in moments of self-doubt. Her older sister, always so confident, so sure of her path. Until she wasn't. Until the darkness took her. Sheila's heart clenched as she remembered finding Natalie that day, too late to save her.

"I'm sorry, Nat," she whispered into the night. "I'm sorry I couldn't save you. I'm sorry I wasn't strong enough."

Lost in her thoughts, Sheila almost walked past the bar. The neon sign flickered weakly, casting a sickly glow on the sidewalk. She knew she shouldn't go in. Her history with alcohol was a demon she'd fought hard to overcome. But the promise of oblivion, of a brief respite from the crushing weight of her guilt, was too tempting to resist.

The bar was nearly empty, just a few late-night stragglers nursing their drinks in dark corners. Sheila took a seat at the bar, the familiar smell of stale beer and whiskey bringing back a flood of memories, both good and bad.

The bartender, a middle-aged man with kind eyes, approached her. "Rough night?" he asked, his voice sympathetic.

Sheila nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

"What can I get you?"

Sheila's hands clenched on the bar top. She shouldn't be here. She shouldn't do this. But Natalie's face swam before her eyes, accusing, disappointed.

"I...I don't know," she stammered.

The bartender studied her for a moment. "How about we start with some water? You look like you could use a moment to think."

Sheila nodded gratefully, accepting the glass of water he placed before her. As she sipped, the bartender kept a discreet eye on her, seeming to sense her internal struggle.

"Want to talk about it?" he offered after a while.

Sheila looked up, meeting his gaze. She saw no judgment there, just genuine concern. For a moment, she was tempted to pour out everything: the case, her fears, and her guilt. But she held back. He was a total stranger, and besides, he had his own life to worry about without hearing all her problems.

She decided to keep things vague. "Just...having a hard time," she said finally. "Feeling like I'm letting people down."

The bartender nodded sympathetically. "We all feel that way sometimes. The important thing is not to let it consume you."

Sheila's eyes drifted to the row of bottles behind the bar. Each label seemed to call out to her, promising a temporary escape from the crushing weight of her guilt and failure. Her fingers twitched, muscle memory from countless nights spent seeking solace at the bottom of a glass.

She could almost taste the burn of whiskey on her tongue, feel the warmth spreading through her chest as the alcohol dulled her senses. It would be so easy to give in, to let the familiar numbness wash over her.

The sound of the door opening behind her made Sheila tense. For a moment, she was sure it would be Finn coming to pull her back from the brink. Part of her hoped it was him, someone to stop her from making this mistake.

But when she glanced over her shoulder, it was just a stranger—a middle-aged man in a rumpled suit, perhaps coming in for a nightcap after a long day at the office. Sheila turned back to the bar as the reality dawned on her: nobody was coming to save her.

This decision was hers alone.

The bartender had moved away to serve the new customer, leaving Sheila alone with her thoughts and temptations. Her eyes fell on the TV mounted in the corner of the bar, its volume low but captions scrolling across the screen.

Suddenly, a familiar face appeared: Emily Davis, her photo smiling out at the world, unaware of the tragic fate that awaited her. The news ticker beneath announced, 'Fourth victim found in Coldwater Confessor case. Police have no leads.'

The words hit Sheila like a physical blow. No leads. They had nothing. She had nothing. Four women dead, and she was no closer to catching the killer than when they started.

In that moment, the last of Sheila's resolve crumbled. She raised her hand, catching the bartender's attention as he returned.

"I'll have a whiskey," she said, her voice hoarse. "Double. Neat."

His eyes crinkled with concern. "You sure about that?"

"Positive. Pour."

As the bartender reached for a bottle, Sheila felt a mix of relief and self-loathing wash over her. She was giving in, falling back into old habits. But at least, for a little while, she might be able to forget her failures.

The glass clinked on the bar in front of her, the amber liquid catching the low light. Sheila stared at it, her hand trembling slightly as she reached out. One drink. Just one to take the edge off. To help her forget, if only for a moment, the weight of her responsibilities and the faces of the women she had failed.

Just one drink.

She lifted the glass, the smell of the whiskey filling her nostrils, bringing with it a flood of memories—some good, many bad. As she brought it to her lips, Sheila closed her eyes, torn between desire and guilt, between the need for escape and the knowledge of where this path could lead.

Just one drink, she told herself again as the liquid spilled like fire across her tongue.

***

Sheila's head throbbed as consciousness slowly returned. She felt herself being lowered onto something soft—a bed? Panic surged through her foggy mind. Where was she? What had happened?

Her eyes snapped open, vision blurry but registering a male figure looming over her. Instinct took over. She lashed out, her fist connecting with something solid.

The man grunted as he stumbled back, raising a hand to his jaw. "Shit, Sheila," he said. "Quite a way to say thank you."

The familiar voice cut through her panic. Sheila blinked rapidly, her surroundings coming into focus. She was in her own bedroom, and the man she'd just struck was indeed her partner, Finn, who was now rubbing his jaw ruefully.

"Finn?" she croaked, her voice hoarse. "What...what happened?"

Finn sighed, sitting on the edge of the bed. "I found you at O'Malley's Bar. You were...pretty out of it. I brought you home."

The events of the night came crashing back, bringing with them a wave of shame. The bar. The whiskey. Breaking her promise to Finn that neither of them would go back to drinking.

She groaned, covering her face with her hands. "Finn, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to...I just…"

"Hey," Finn said, gently pulling her hands away from her face. "It's okay. We all have moments of weakness."

Sheila shook her head, wincing at the movement. "No, it's not okay. We promised each other, Finn. After everything we've been through, we swore we wouldn't drink anymore. And I just...I threw that away."

She could see the concern in Finn's eyes, mixed with something else. Disappointment? Understanding? She couldn't tell, and that uncertainty only added to her shame.

"How did you find me?" she asked, partly to change the subject and partly out of genuine curiosity.

Finn ran a hand through his hair, looking tired. "When you didn't come back to the crime scene, I got worried. Started checking the places I thought you might go. O'Malley's was my third stop."

Sheila felt a fresh wave of guilt. While she'd been drowning her sorrows, Finn had been out looking for her, probably worried sick.

"I'm sorry," she said again, her voice barely above a whisper. "For making you worry. For breaking our promise. For...for everything."

Finn was quiet for a moment, then reached out and squeezed her hand. "We'll talk about it later, okay? Right now, you need to rest. We've got a killer to catch, and I need my partner at her best."

As he stood to leave, Sheila caught his arm. "Finn...thank you. For finding me. For bringing me home."

He nodded, a small smile on his face. "Always, partner. Now, get some sleep. I'll be back in a few hours with coffee and aspirin."

As the door closed behind him, Sheila sank back into her pillows, her head pounding and her heart heavy. She'd let herself down, let Finn down, and let the whole investigation down.

"Finn, wait," she called out, surprising herself.

The door opened again, and Finn poked his head in. "Yeah?"

"Can you...can you stay? Just for a little while?"

Finn's expression softened. He came back into the room, closing the door behind him. He sat on the edge of the bed, close enough that Sheila could feel the warmth radiating from him.

"Of course," he said, reaching out to take her hand. His touch sent a small shiver through her.

They sat in silence for a moment. Finally, Sheila spoke.

"I can't believe I did that: breaking our promise, disappearing on you...for not being strong enough."

Finn squeezed her hand gently. "Hey, look at me," he said. Sheila raised her eyes to meet his, seeing not judgment but understanding. "You're strong, Sheila. Stronger than you know."

"I don't feel strong," she admitted. "I feel like I'm falling apart."

Finn shifted closer, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. Sheila leaned into him, allowing herself to draw comfort from his presence.

"We all have moments of weakness," he said softly. "What matters is how we pick ourselves up afterward. And you, Sheila Stone, have always been a fighter."

Sheila felt tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. "I don't know if I can do this, Finn. The case, us...everything feels so overwhelming."

Finn's arm tightened around her. "You can do this. We can do this. Together." He paused, then continued, his voice thick with emotion. "I love you, Sheila. Not just the perfect, put-together detective, but all of you. The strong parts, the vulnerable parts, all of it."

It wasn't the first time Sheila had heard him say those words, but they were still potent nonetheless. A pleasant feeling spread over her like a warm blanket on a winter's night.

She turned to face him, their faces inches apart. "Finn, I..." Overwhelmed by emotion, she closed the distance between them, pressing her lips to his. The kiss was soft at first, then deepened, conveying everything she couldn't put into words. When they finally pulled apart, both slightly breathless, Sheila felt a newfound strength coursing through her.

"Thank you," she whispered, resting her forehead against his. "For everything."

Finn smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Always. Now, how about we both get some rest? We've got a killer to catch, and I need my brilliant partner at her best."

Sheila closed her eyes, promising herself that when she woke up, she'd face her mistakes and get back on track. The Coldwater Confessor was still out there, and hungover or not, she had a job to do.

Assuming you're the right person to do it, a voice whispered in the back of her head.

Sheila's eyes snapped open, the thought hitting her like a bucket of ice water. Was she the right person? After her lapse, after all the dead ends and missed opportunities, could she really trust herself to lead this investigation?

She tried to sit up straighter, ignoring the pounding in her head. The room spun for a moment before settling.

"Easy," Finn said. "Just rest, okay? You're exhausted."

"I…" Sheila fell silent as she caught her own reflection in the mirror across the room. The woman looking back at her seemed like a stranger: eyes bloodshot, hair disheveled, a shadow of the confident person she'd once been.

You're falling apart, the voice continued. How can you catch a killer when you can't even stay sober?

Sheila shook her head, trying to dispel the negative thoughts. But they clung to her like a shroud, whispering doubts and fears. She thought of the victims: Laura, Sophie, Rachel, Emily. They deserved justice. They deserved a detective who was at the top of her game, not someone drowning in self-doubt and guilt.

And then there was Natalie. Her sister's face swam before her eyes, both the vibrant woman she'd been and the broken creature Sheila had found that fateful day. The failure of not being able to save her own sister had pressed down on her for months, and now she felt its full weight in a way she hadn't since discovering her sister's body.

"What is it?" Finn murmured. "What are you thinking about?"

Sheila took a deep breath, her eyes meeting Finn's in the dim light of her bedroom. "I...I don't know if I can do this anymore," she said.

Finn's brow furrowed with concern. "What do you mean?"

"This case, being a detective...all of it," Sheila said, the words tumbling out. "I keep second-guessing myself, blaming myself for not being good enough. For Natalie, for these victims...I'm not sure I have what it takes anymore."

Finn shifted closer, taking her hand in his. "Sheila, listen to me," he said. "You are one of the best detectives I've ever known. Your instincts, your dedication, your heart—that's what makes you great at what you do."

Sheila shook her head, tears threatening to spill. "But I keep failing. Natalie, these women...I couldn't save them."

"You can't save everyone," Finn said softly. "But you can fight for justice for them. And that's exactly what you're doing." He paused, squeezing her hand. "You know, when I first met you, I was in awe of your determination. You never gave up, no matter how tough things got. That fire is still in you, Sheila. I see it every day."

Sheila looked up at him, a glimmer of hope in her eyes. "You really think so?"

Finn nodded, a small smile on his face. "I know so. You're stronger than you realize, Sheila Stone. And you're not alone in this fight. I'm here every step of the way."

His words washed over her, carrying away some of the darkness that had been clouding her mind. Sheila leaned into him, drawing strength from his presence.

"Thank you," she whispered. "For believing in me, even when I don't believe in myself."

Finn wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close. "Always," he said. "Now, what do you say we get some rest, and tomorrow we hit this case with everything we've got?"

As they settled back onto the bed, Finn's arms around her, a sense of peace came over Sheila. The doubts and guilt weren't gone, but they no longer seemed insurmountable. With Finn by her side and a renewed sense of purpose, she was ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead.

The Coldwater Confessor was still out there, but Sheila Stone was back in the game. And this time, she wasn't facing her demons alone.