CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

Sheila pushed past a group of shouting followers, ignoring their grasping hands and angry cries. She burst through the side door and into a dimly lit hallway. Ahead, she could hear the sound of running footsteps echoing off the walls.

Behind her, she could still hear the sounds of the scuffle in the meeting room. She said a silent prayer that Finn would be okay, then focused all her attention on the fleeing suspect ahead. She wasn't going to let him get away again.

The hallway seemed to stretch on forever, twisting and turning through the bowels of the community center. Sheila could hear Thorne just ahead, his breathing heavy, his footsteps echoing off the walls. She pushed herself harder, gaining ground inch by inch.

Suddenly, the hallway opened up into a large storage room. Shelves lined the walls, stacked high with boxes and old furniture. Sheila skidded to a stop, her eyes darting around the space. Where had he gone?

Sheila skidded to a stop, her eyes darting around the space. Where had he gone? The storage room was a maze of shelves and discarded furniture, shadows lurking in every corner. She strained her ears, listening for any sound that might betray Thorne's location.

A faint scuff to her left caught her attention. Sheila spun, catching a glimpse of movement behind a stack of old filing cabinets. She moved carefully, her footsteps silent on the concrete floor.

"Thorne!" she called out, her voice steady despite her racing heart. "There's nowhere to go. Come out now, and we can talk about this."

Silence was her only answer. Sheila inched forward, her hand on her weapon. She needed to be smart about this. Thorne had the advantage of knowing the layout of this room, and she couldn't risk letting him slip past her.

Sheila inched forward, her senses on high alert. The storage room was quiet, the only sound her own controlled breathing. She rounded a corner, peering between two tall shelving units.

Suddenly, a dark figure burst from the shadows. Thorne lunged at her, his face contorted with rage and desperation. Sheila barely had time to react as his body slammed into hers, sending them both crashing to the ground.

They grappled on the dusty floor, Thorne fighting with the strength of a cornered animal. His elbow caught Sheila in the ribs, knocking the wind out of her. For a moment, he had the upper hand, his weight pinning her down.

But Sheila wasn't defenseless. Years of kickboxing training kicked in, muscle memory taking over. She bucked her hips, destabilizing Thorne's position. In one fluid motion, she wrapped her legs around his torso, using the leverage to flip their positions.

Now on top, Sheila drove her knee into Thorne's solar plexus, causing him to gasp and loosen his grip. Taking advantage of his momentary weakness, she grabbed his arm and twisted it behind his back, effectively immobilizing him.

"It's over, Thorne," she said, reaching for her handcuffs. "Stop fighting."

Thorne struggled for a few more seconds before going limp, the fight draining out of him. Sheila quickly secured the handcuffs, her heart still racing from the intense confrontation.

As she hauled Thorne to his feet, something caught her eye. A tuft of hair was sticking out oddly from his scalp. Frowning, Sheila reached out and tugged gently. To her surprise, the entire head of hair came away in her hand.

A wig.

He'd been wearing a disguise—just like Sheila believed the killer did.

***

Hours later, Sheila stood in the observation room, her eyes fixed on Ezra Thorne through the one-way mirror. He sat alone in the interrogation room, his face impassive, hands folded neatly on the table in front of him. His hair—his natural hair, that was—was gray and tangled.

Francine Albright had described the priest as having gray hair, but she'd said it was 'very neat.' This man's hair didn't strike Sheila as neat, but then again, neat was a subjective descriptor. Neat to one person might be messy to someone else.

"What do you think?" Finn asked, coming to stand beside her.

Sheila sighed, running a hand through her hair. "I don't know. It's hard to be certain about anything right now."

Finn raised an eyebrow. "You're having doubts? Sheila, this guy fits the profile perfectly. The religious angle, the connection to the theater, the disguises—it all fits. Not to mention his reaction when we showed up at the meeting."

"I know, I know," Sheila said, trying not to get frustrated. "But what if we're seeing what we want to see? What if we're so desperate for a break in the case that we're forcing the pieces to fit?"

Finn was about to respond when the door to the interrogation room opened. A woman in a sharp suit walked in, her heels clicking on the tile floor. Thorne's attorney had arrived.

"Damn," Finn muttered. "There goes our chance to question him."

Sheila nodded, her brow furrowed in thought. The arrival of the lawyer complicated things. They'd have to wait now, give Thorne time to confer with his attorney. And all the while, a nagging doubt gnawed at the back of Sheila's mind.

What if they were wrong? What if Ezra Thorne, for all his suspicious behavior, wasn't the Coldwater Confessor? The real killer could still be out there, perhaps even planning his next move while they focused on the wrong man.

The door to the observation room burst open, startling both detectives. Sheriff Hank Dawson strode in, his face a mask of barely contained stress.

"Stone, Mercer," he said brusquely. "What's the situation with Thorne?"

"The situation," Finn said, "is that his lawyer just arrived. Could be a while before we get the chance to talk to him."

Dawson glanced at his watch and cursed under his breath. "Damn it. We don't have time for this. The mayor's breathing down my neck, demanding updates. The public is in a panic, and we need to give them something."

"Sir," Sheila said cautiously, "we're not sure yet if Thorne is actually our killer. We need more time to investigate—"

"Time is a luxury we don't have, Stone," Dawson said, cutting her off. "I've scheduled a press conference for an hour from now. I need you and Mercer there to share your findings on the case."

Sheila's eyes widened in disbelief. "An hour? Sheriff, that's not nearly enough time to—"

"It'll have to be," Dawson interrupted again. "People are scared, Stone—they're hiding in their homes, talking about canceling church services. They need reassurance. They need to know we're making progress."

"With all due respect, sir," Finn said, "if we go public with information that turns out to be wrong, it could jeopardize the entire investigation."

Dawson's shoulders sagged, the weight of his responsibility evident in every line of his body. "I understand your concerns. But right now, perception is as important as facts. We need to show the public that we're on top of this, that they can feel safe in their homes again."

Sheila opened her mouth to protest, but Dawson held up a hand. "I've already made my decision," he said. "I suggest you spend the next hour getting ready for what you're going to say."

With that, Dawson left the room. Sheila stared after him, feeling the pressure mounting. She had one hour—one hour to either prove Thorne's guilt beyond a shadow of a doubt or find evidence that exonerated him.

But where to start? The wig was suspicious, but not conclusive. Thorne's behavior at the meeting could be explained by simple paranoia or anti-government sentiment. They needed something solid, something that either tied Thorne definitively to the murders or ruled him out completely.

Sheila's mind raced, reviewing every detail of the case: the victims, the crime scenes, the religious symbolism, the theater connection...

Suddenly, an idea struck her.

"Finn," she said, her voice tight with urgency, "we need to search Thorne's house. If he's our guy, there's a good chance he'll have some candlesticks there, ready for future victims."

Finn frowned. "What if he's run out of candlesticks?"

Sheila took a deep breath, steeling herself for the possibility. "Then we need to be prepared to tell Dawson and the public that we might have the wrong man. And that the Coldwater Confessor could still be out there."