CHAPTER FIVE

Sheila's fingers drummed an anxious rhythm on the steering wheel as she guided the SUV through Coldwater's deserted streets. The clock on the dashboard read 12:37 AM, but sleep was the furthest thing from her mind. Every second that ticked by was another moment Sophie Tournay might be in danger.

If she was still alive at all.

"You okay?" Finn asked from the passenger seat, his voice cutting through the tense silence.

Sheila glanced at him, forcing a tight smile. "Just thinking about Sophie. And Laura. And how this whole mess feels like it's spinning out of control. I mean, if the man Sophie was meeting with is the same person who killed Laura, that's a gap of only three nights. Will he attack someone else in three nights?"

"You're assuming he attacked Sophie at all. For all we know, she could be safe and sound."

Sheila studied him for a few long seconds before turning her attention back to the road. "You don't really think that," she said.

Finn sighed. "It never hurts to be optimistic, does it?"

Sheila slowed the SUV as they neared Chester's Bar and Grill. The neon sign cast a dim, reddish glow over the nearly empty parking lot, the flickering 'R' giving the place an eerie, abandoned feel.

"Not exactly bustling," Finn said as they stepped out of the SUV.

Sheila shrugged, her eyes scanning the area. "We just need to find one person who was here three nights ago, that's it."

They entered the bar, the smell of stale beer and fried food hitting them immediately. A few patrons lingered at the bar, nursing their drinks in silence. Country music played softly from an old jukebox in the corner, the melancholy tune fitting the mood perfectly.

The bartender, a middle-aged man with a receding hairline and a faded tattoo on his forearm, looked up as they approached. "We're about to close up," he said, his tone weary.

Sheila flashed her badge. "Deputy Stone, Coldwater County Sheriff's Department. This is Deputy Mercer. We need to ask a few questions about a patron who was here three nights ago."

The bartender sighed, setting down the glass he'd been cleaning. "Three nights ago? Sorry, but I wasn't working then."

"Is there anyone here who was working then?" Sheila asked.

The bartender thought for a moment, his brow furrowed. "Well, Irene was on shift. She's in the kitchen now, closing up."

Sheila and Finn exchanged a look of renewed hope. "Can we speak with her?" Finn asked.

The bartender shrugged. "Sure, go on back. Just don't get in the way of closing procedures. Boss hates it when we're late locking up."

As they made their way to the kitchen, Sheila couldn't help but notice the worn-down appearance of the place. Faded posters of long-past events clung to the walls, and the floor was sticky beneath her boots. It was the kind of place where secrets could easily be buried, forgotten in the haze of alcohol and dim lighting.

They pushed through the swinging doors into the kitchen. The clanging of pots and the hiss of a cleaning spray filled the air. A petite woman with curly red hair was wiping down a stainless steel counter, her movements quick and efficient.

"Irene?" Sheila asked.

The woman's head snapped up, her eyes widening at the sight of the deputies. "Y-yes?" she stammered, taking a step back. Her hand clutched the cleaning rag tightly, knuckles white with tension.

Sheila held up her hands in a calming gesture. "We're not here to cause trouble. We just need to ask you a few questions about a patron from three nights ago."

Irene's eyes darted between them and the exit. "I don't...I don't know anything. I just serve drinks and food, that's all."

Seems awfully edgy, Sheila thought. Maybe she's had run-ins with the law before.

Finn stepped forward, his voice gentle. "This is very important," Finn said. "A woman's life may depend on it."

Irene swallowed hard. "What exactly do you want to know?"

Sheila showed her the photo of Sophie. "Do you remember seeing this woman here?"

Irene studied the photo, recognition dawning in her eyes. "Yeah, I remember her. She was sitting at a corner table, looked kind of nervous. Kept checking her phone."

"Was she meeting someone?" Finn asked.

Irene nodded. "A man. I didn't get a good look at him, though. He was wearing a hat, kept his head down most of the time."

"Can you describe him at all?" Sheila asked, hope rising in her chest.

Irene furrowed her brow. "Um, average height, I guess? Dark clothes. Kind of looked like a politician, you know? Fancy suit and all that."

Sheila nodded, filing this information away. "Do you remember anything else? When did they leave?"

"It was late," Irene said. "We were about to close up. They left together through the side door. The man...he had his hand on her back. It looked...I don't know, possessive?"

Sheila and Finn exchanged a significant look. "Thank you, Irene," Sheila said. "You've been very helpful."

Irene nodded, her face pale. "Is she okay? The woman in the photo?"

Sheila paused, choosing her words carefully. "We're doing everything we can to find her. We appreciate your cooperation."

With that, Sheila and Finn hurried away, returning to the main room of the bar before taking the side door Irene had mentioned. They emerged in a narrow alley. Sheila's eyes scanned the area, looking for anything out of place. The alley was dark, lit only by a single flickering streetlight at the far end. Dumpsters lined one wall, their pungent odor mixing with the lingering smell of fried food from the kitchen.

"Sheila," Finn said suddenly, pointing upward.

Sheila followed his gaze and felt a surge of excitement. There, mounted on the corner of the building, was a security camera.

***

Sheila and Finn made their way back into the bar, where they found a stocky man with a neatly trimmed beard locking the cash register. The jukebox had fallen silent, and the last few patrons were shuffling out the door, leaving behind a silence broken only by the soft clink of glasses being cleaned.

"Excuse me," Sheila said, approaching the stocky man. "Are you the manager?"

The man looked up, his eyes narrowing. "Yeah, that's me. Tom Grayson. What can I do for you?" His tone suggested he'd much rather be left alone.

"I'm Deputy Stone, and this is Deputy Mercer. We're trying to track down someone who was here three nights ago. Can you access the footage from the security camera above the back door?"

Tom shook his head, his expression a mix of annoyance and wariness. "Sorry, but we're closing up. Come back tomorrow during business hours."

"This is an urgent matter, Mr. Grayson," Finn said. "It's very important we find this woman."

Tom's expression hardened. "Look, I sympathize, but I can't just hand over our security footage to anyone who asks. There are protocols, privacy concerns. Unless you have a warrant—"

"We don't have time for a warrant," Sheila said, frustration edging into her voice. "The woman we're looking for could be in danger."

Tom lowered his voice to a more confidential tone. "Is this about what happened at St. Michael's? The whole town's shaken up about that. If there's a killer on the loose..."

Sheila exchanged a glance with Finn. They needed Tom's cooperation, but how much should they reveal? The delicate balance between informing the public and protecting the integrity of the investigation weighed heavily on her mind.

"It's possible there's a connection," she said carefully. "We can't say for certain yet."

"You think this woman you're looking for is dead, too?"

Sheila took a deep breath, acutely aware of the ticking clock in her mind. "We can't disclose all the details of an ongoing investigation, but I can tell you that we're trying to prevent another tragedy. The footage from your camera could be the key to stopping a dangerous individual."

Tom studied them for a long moment, his gaze moving from Sheila to Finn and back again. The silence stretched, broken only by the distant hum of the refrigerators behind the bar. Finally, he sighed, his shoulders sagging slightly. "Alright. Follow me."

He led them through a door marked 'Employees Only' and down a narrow hallway lined with faded posters of long-past events. The smell of stale beer and cleaning products grew stronger as they approached a small office at the end of the corridor.

Inside, a computer was set up with multiple monitors, the screens casting a blue glow over the cluttered desk. Tom sat down in a worn office chair and began typing, navigating through folders to pull up the security footage from three nights earlier.

Sheila and Finn leaned in, their eyes fixed on the screens. The grainy black-and-white footage showed the side entrance of the bar, the timestamp in the corner reading 9:42 PM.

"There," Sheila said, pointing to the screen as two figures appeared in the frame. "That's Sophie."

They watched intently as Sophie left the bar with a man. Just as Irene had described, the man had one hand on Sophie's back, guiding her. But what caught Sheila's attention was his other hand.

"Look," she said to Finn, her voice tight with tension. "He's covering his face."

Sure enough, the man's free hand was held up to his face, as if rubbing his forehead—and effectively obscuring the camera's view.

"He knew about the camera," Finn muttered, his brow furrowing. "Must have scoped out the place beforehand."

Sheila nodded grimly. "This wasn't a spontaneous act. He planned this."

"You telling me some psycho's been casing my place of business?" Tom asked.

"I'm telling you that you should probably keep a close eye on things in case he finds reason to come back," Finn said. "Keep the footage rolling."

They continued watching as Sophie and the man headed not toward the parking lot but toward an adjoining alley.

"That alley," Sheila said, her pulse quickening. "Where does it lead?"

Tom shrugged, looking uncomfortable. "Nowhere, really. It's a dead end. Sometimes people use it to smoke or...you know, get some privacy."

Sheila and Finn exchanged a look, an unspoken understanding passing between them. Without another word, they hurried out of the office, back through the bar, and out the side door, emerging once again into the cool night air.

They crossed to the alley, which was dark, the flickering streetlight barely penetrating the gloom. Sheila pulled out her flashlight, its beam cutting through the shadows like a knife. They moved cautiously, alert for any sound or movement.

The air felt heavy, thick with the scent of rotting garbage from nearby dumpsters and something else...something metallic and sickly sweet that made Sheila's stomach churn with dread.

As they neared the end of the alley, Sheila's light fell on something sprawled on the ground. Her heart leaped into her throat, and she felt Finn tense beside her.

"Finn," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Look."

There, half-hidden behind a dumpster, lay a body. The beam of Sheila's flashlight revealed a woman's form, her limbs splayed at unnatural angles. Dark stains spread across her clothing, glistening wetly in the harsh light.

Sheila approached slowly, her training warring with the horror rising in her chest. As she drew closer, she could make out more details: the woman's pale face, her eyes staring sightlessly at the sky, her mouth frozen in a silent scream.

It was, without a doubt, Sophie Tournay.