CHAPTER TWO

The moment Finn Mercer slid into the passenger seat of the cruiser, a jolt of unfamiliar excitement zipped through Sheila Stone's veins.

She offered him a curt nod, her lips pressing together in a tight smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. The air between them, once filled with easy banter and the comfort of camaraderie, now crackled with a strange new energy. They had crossed an invisible line, venturing from colleagues to something more just days ago, and the shift left Sheila navigating their interactions with cautious uncertainty.

"Evening, Finn," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. She gripped the steering wheel as if it were a lifeline, pulling onto the highway with practiced ease.

Finn was an enigma wrapped in a uniform—a man who brought with him the sharp intellect of the streets of Philadelphia and the cool poise of a former fighter pilot. He possessed a confidence that wasn't boastful but rather a quiet certainty in his own capabilities. His close-cropped hair, the color of midnight, only accentuated the sharp angles of his jawline and the piercing gaze of his deep-set eyes. There was also the undeniable sense of loyalty he exuded, a trait that Sheila found both comforting and magnetic.

"So," he said, "how was your weekend? After Friday night, I mean."

Friday night had been their first date. They had gone out for drinks at a little-known speakeasy in the heart of town, a small place with a charmingly vintage vibe. Finn had insisted it was exactly her kind of place and, to her surprise, she'd found he was right.

"My weekend?" Sheila glanced at him, a ghost of a smile playing on her lips. "It was fine."

Finn chuckled lightly. "Fine? That's all I get?"

"I did some training with Star." Fourteen-year-old Star, who reminded Sheila so much of herself at that age. She knew she couldn't fix Star's problems—not least of all her home life—but she could provide Star with someone she could count on, not to mention someone she could spar with when she needed an outlet for her anger.

"How'd it go? "

"It's a work-in-progress." The truth was that Star, while initially excited about the prospect of kickboxing, had balked at all the discipline involved, especially the emphasis on footwork. She wanted to start by practicing roundhouse kicks, not learning the fundamentals. But if Sheila was going to train Star, she was going to do it right.

She just hoped Star would stick around long enough to get to some of the more exciting sessions.

"I'm sure she'll do great," Finn said. "She has an excellent teacher, after all."

"What about you? How was your weekend?"

"I spent Saturday with my old man on the phone, catching up on Philly news. Sunday was all paperwork. This job, right?" He chuckled, but it sounded odd, uncomfortable.

"Right," Sheila echoed, the word hollow against the hum of the engine. Their conversation limped along, each sentence punctured by the pause that follows when two people are still learning how to fill the spaces between them. She had known Finn for close to a year now, but whatever ease and familiarity she'd built up with him over that time, their blooming romance had complicated it. Relaxing around him was easy when they were off the clock, but when they were working…

Well, compartmentalizing was a lot more challenging when her work partner was also her romantic partner.

Red and blue lights flickered in the distance, painting the night in urgent hues and pulling Sheila from her thoughts. Brake lights ahead formed a glaring red ribbon that stretched into the dark, and Sheila eased her foot onto the brake, feeling the car slow to a crawl. She glanced over at Finn, the man who had somehow tiptoed past her defenses, his sharp jawline softened by the dashboard's glow.

"Looks like we're stuck," she said, wincing at the inadequacy of words when silence would have been just as communicative.

Finn nodded, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in a half-smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. His fingers drummed on the phone in his lap. "Well, since we're idle, why don't I run through the case details again?"

"Please," Sheila replied, grateful for any distraction from the awkwardness that had settled between them like an uninvited passenger.

He unlocked the phone, the screen illuminating his face, and began scrolling. "Vanessa Hart," he said, his voice taking on the professional timber she was familiar with, "last seen alive leading a protest outside ChemiTech Industries' gates earlier tonight. The environmental group she was with claimed the company's been dumping toxic waste into the Jemison River."

Sheila frowned, her gaze fixed on the stagnant traffic. "ChemiTech, the pharmaceutical giant? That's a serious allegation. Do we think there's a link between her activism and her death?"

"Could be," Finn mused, tapping the screen. "Vanessa was vocal, made a lot of noise about corporate responsibility. Might've stepped on the wrong toes."

The idling cars around them seemed like steel cages trapping them in place. Sheila, thinking about the dead woman and all the people who would be looking for answers—family, friends, coworkers—felt her restlessness building until she couldn't take it anymore. Without a word, she flipped on the siren. Immediately, a piercing wail sliced through the night.

"What are you—" Finn began, but cut himself off as Sheila steered sharply into the breakdown lane. She gunned the engine, then cut through a narrow gap in traffic, weaving her way through the congestion.

"Nice driving," Finn said.

"Thanks," she replied, keeping her focus on the path ahead. The adrenaline from taking control stirred something within her, a reminder of the instincts that had served her well both in the ring and in the field.

They shot forward, the chaos of the jam receding behind them like a bad memory. Ahead, the open road beckoned, a promise of progress—and, perhaps, answers. The landscape transformed with every mile. The city lights had long since dwindled in their rearview mirror, and now even the sparse roadside lamps were scarce. They were delving into a world devoid of human touch, where nature reclaimed its dominion under the cover of darkness.

"Turn left ahead," Finn said, his voice cutting through the hum of the engine. His finger traced a glowing line on the GPS screen, a beacon guiding them through the obscurity. Sheila obliged, guiding the vehicle onto a narrower path. The terrain here was changing, the earth growing hard and flat, scrub brush giving way to vast stretches of open land.

"Almost feels like we're driving on another planet," she remarked, squinting into the night.

"Welcome to the edge of nowhere," Finn replied, a half-smile playing on his lips .

As they approached the Mirage Salt Flats, the ground shimmered faintly under the moonlight, a vast expanse of white that stretched toward infinity. It was a desolate beauty, one that made Sheila feel both insignificant and invigorated. And yet, there was an eerie sense of foreboding hanging in the air—a silent testament that something unnatural had occurred in this alien landscape.

Spotting a collection of police vehicles, Sheila parked the cruiser at the edge of the flats, the engine ticking as it cooled. They got out, and the crisp, dry air hit her lungs, carrying the faint scent of salt and earth. Ahead, a constellation of artificial lights disrupted the natural order of the stars, marking the location of the crime scene.

"The body's still out there?" Sheila asked, involuntarily tensing.

"Should be. Last I knew."

They walked toward the lights, their boots crunching on the crystalline surface. As they drew closer, a figure detached herself from a group of officers and headed in their direction. She was tall, with broad shoulders that set her silhouette apart from the others. Her uniform marked her as local police, and her stride was confident, purposeful.

"Evening," she said, extending a hand as she reached them. "I'm Officer Deborah Rainy. You must be officers Sheila and Finn from County."

"That's right," Sheila said, shaking her hand. Rainy's grip was strong, the handshake brief but assertive.

"Let's get you up to speed on what we've found so far," Rainy said. She turned, leading them toward the heart of the illuminated area, her torchlight cutting through the night like a beacon. Sheila and Finn followed close behind, flashlights in hand, scanning the desolate expanse that stretched out like a blank canvas around them.

"Got a call from some stargazers a couple of hours ago," Rainy said. "Said they'd found a body on the flats, but this…" She cleared her throat.

"You can never really be ready for it," Sheila murmured.

"Especially when it's—well, I'll just let you see it for yourselves."

The beams of their lights soon revealed a shape lying motionless on the ground, dark against the white salt. The victim—Vanessa Hart—was on her back, limbs arranged in an unnaturally precise manner, reminiscent of a macabre snow angel. As they drew closer, the details became clearer: symbols, looping and ornate like Arabic calligraphy, encircled her body, drawn into the salt in a meticulous clockwise pattern.

Sheila froze, rooted to the spot. She felt as if she were back in Natalie's cabin. It all came rushing back—Natalie's reticence, her unavailability, her cryptic text saying she was sorry…

And, worst of all, the moment Sheila had opened the cabin door and found her older sister dead on the floor.

The sudden memory hit her like a punch, leaving her breathless. She clutched her chest, the shockwaves of pain all too real, all too present. Beside her, Finn reached out instinctively, placing a steadying hand on her shoulder. "You okay?" he asked, his voice low and concerned.

"Yeah," she replied, her voice echoing strangely in the desolate landscape. "I'm good." But the lie was a bitter taste in her mouth.

Officer Rainy was looking at them with wary concern etched on her tough features.

"And none of this has been disturbed?" Sheila asked, trying to get the spotlight off herself.

"Right," Rainy said. "The people who found her—well, it wasn't difficult to realize Ms. Hart was dead. They didn't have to get close."

Sheila knelt beside Vanessa, her professional gaze sweeping over the scene with practiced efficiency. The back of Vanessa's head appeared sticky with blood, suggesting blunt force trauma may have been the cause of death. But there was more: Peculiar herbs were scattered across the corpse, their pungent scent rising in the night air, mingling with the tang of salt and death. The leaves were dark, shriveled, and unfamiliar to Sheila, yet they seemed to have been placed with intention, each one resting at strategic points upon Vanessa's body.

"Any idea what these are?" Sheila asked, nodding toward the herbs without taking her eyes off the body.

"Local flora, maybe? I'm no botanist," Rainy admitted, shining her light over the plants for a better look. "But what was she doing out here in the first place?"

It was a valid question—one that Sheila filed away as part of the growing list of unknowns in this case. Why would she have come straight here after wrapping up her protest earlier in the evening? The salt flats were a popular destination for hikers, but to show up at night like this, with no backpack or other signs of camping gear…

"Has her car been searched?" she asked, glancing at Rainy .

Rainy shook her head. "Haven't found one."

Sheila nodded. After taking a few pictures, she began fishing through the victim's pockets, careful not to disturb the herbs. She found a set of keys in the victim's front left pocket.

"Let's go find that car," she said to Finn.

Finn, however, was still staring at the body. "Could be some kind of ceremonial herbs," he murmured.

"Maybe." Sheila's mind raced. She considered Vanessa's passionate activism, her recent protest against ChemiTech Industries. Could this be some sort of twisted retribution? But no, this felt older, deeper—like a message steeped in another era, another belief system entirely.

"Human sacrifice," she muttered, half to herself. The words tasted bitter on her tongue.

"Sorry, what was that?" Finn asked, tilting his head to catch her eyes.

"Human sacrifice," Sheila repeated louder, locking eyes with him. "This feels like someone trying to appease...something. Or send a message."

Sheila took a deep breath, her eyes never leaving the scene. The killer had used Vanessa's body to create this tableau, positioning her arms and legs, choosing this desolate place for its stark, unyielding canvas—a stage meant for an audience of more than just the stargazers who stumbled upon it. It was all too deliberate, too carefully orchestrated to be the result of a sudden, impassioned act.

"Whoever did this wanted us to find her like this," Sheila said, her tone firm despite the tremor of revulsion that ran through her. "They're making a statement, alright. But what the hell are they trying to say?"