CHAPTER THREE

Sheila leaned forward over the steering wheel, searching the edge of the road for Vanessa Hart's vehicle. The terrain stretched endlessly around them, a vast canvas of crystalline salt reflecting the moonlight like a blanket of frost.

"Any theories?" Finn asked from the passenger seat, breaking the silence that had settled between them since they got into the car.

"Religious," Sheila said immediately. "Those symbols—whatever this is, it's not just about a beef over environmentalism. We have to assume the killer's belief system plays a significant role."

They were both silent for several long moments.

"You were thinking of Natalie, weren't you?" Finn asked without preamble, the words startling Sheila. "Back there, when we saw Vanessa's body…"

Sheila swallowed hard. She felt a familiar pang at the mention of her sister, an ache that hadn't dulled with time. "Let's just stay on point here, okay?"

A few more moments passed in silence.

"I think it's important we trust one another," Finn said. "If we're going to be romantically involved in one another's lives."

"It's not about trust."

He faced her. "I want to help you get through this. I really do. But if you don't let me in, how can I?"

Sheila's voice rose. "And how can I let you in if you keep trying to force your way in?" She sighed, exasperated. "I'm sorry, I'm just—"

"It's okay. I get it, you're on edge."

On edge—yes, that described it pretty well. Sheila's mouth watered at the prospect of having a drink. If she could just have one beer—just one to calm her racing thoughts—

As the cruiser rounded a bend, the headlights splashed across a solitary SUV parked awkwardly off the road, abandoned, its silver paint gleaming dully under the moon. A Subaru Outback, just like the tag on Vanessa's keys .

"That must be it," Sheila said, grateful for the distraction. She parked the car. Then, sensing she owed Finn something more, she paused before getting out.

"I'm sorry I snapped at you," she said. "But I need some time. When I'm ready to talk about her, I'll let you know. Can you trust me on that?"

Finn's expression softened into a sad smile. "Sure, Sheila. I just don't like you bearing this alone. It's too much for one person."

Sheila, not knowing how to respond, simply nodded and climbed out of the car.

As the two officers approached Vanessa's SUV, Finn tossed Sheila a pair of latex gloves, then snapped a pair over his own hands. "I'll call forensics as soon as we're done here," he said. "See if they can't lift any DNA or fingerprints."

Sheila unlocked the SUV remotely, then opened the driver door and peered inside. The interior of the vehicle was chaotic—a disordered collection of maps, protest flyers, and a few half-empty water bottles all indicating a life lived passionately and on the move.

"Everything looks pretty standard for an activist," Finn said, rifling through the papers in the glove compartment.

"Except activists don't usually end up dead with herbs on their body and symbols drawn around them," Sheila said. She checked the back seats, finding more of the same—signs of Vanessa's fervor for her cause, yet nothing that screamed motive for murder.

"Well, this is interesting," Finn murmured, his head halfway inside the trunk. He emerged holding a thick book that looked like it might have been printed on the Gutenberg Press.

"‘Celestial Sorcery: Harnessing the Powers of the Stars and Planets,'" Finn said, reading the faded spine. "Think it could have to do with those symbols around her body?"

"The herbs, too," Sheila murmured, studying the book. Finn passed it to her, and she leafed through it, searching for highlighting, notes, or other marks, but finding none.

"Let's keep searching," she said. "We'll look into this afterward."

As she returned to the search, her fingers grazed over the worn fabric of a tote bag nestled under the passenger seat. Carefully, she drew it out and placed it on the hood of the car.

"Look at this," she said, unzipping the tote to reveal a hodgepodge of flyers for environmental rallies, petitions filled with fervent signatures, and a collection of reusable water bottles. "She lived her cause."

"Passionate," Finn said, peering into the bag. They both knew Vanessa's dedication, but the ordinary objects did nothing to help explain why her life had been snuffed out so brutally.

As she sifted through the contents, Sheila's hand brushed against something solid. Pulling it out, she discovered it was a smartphone, its screen peppered with notifications. She held it up to the silvery moonlight, and her pulse quickened as she saw the same number repeated in the log of missed calls.

"Got something?" Finn asked, his voice tight.

"Her phone—missed calls, all from tonight. All from the same number." Sheila's thumb hovered over the callback button. Before apprehension could grip her, she pressed it and brought the phone to her ear.

"Hello?" a male voice asked.

"Who is this?" Sheila asked.

"What are you talking about? Where's Vanessa?"

"This is Detective Stone with the Coldwater County Sheriff's Department. With whom am I speaking?"

The line went silent for several long moments, and Sheila began to suspect the man had ended the call.

"I'm Vanessa's brother, Vincent," he said in a low, troubled voice. What happened to my sister?"

***

Vincent's face crumpled like a discarded piece of paper as he absorbed the news, the corners of his eyes glistening with the onset of tears that refused to fall. He was a mirror image of his sister: short blonde hair and a physique that echoed the same athletic lineage. His eyes searched Sheila's for answers she could not provide.

Poor man, Sheila thought. He had no idea. She had the book on astrology in her hand, carefully hidden beneath her folded coat. She didn't want to reveal it to Vincent until she was confident the time was right.

"Dead?" Vincent asked again, the word catching in his throat like a fishbone. The apartment around them seemed to absorb the shock, the walls closing in with the heaviness of grief. It was a modest setting—family photos clustered on shelves, children's drawings taped to the fridge, and a few plants that looked in need of water. The decor was sporadic but homely, with a threadbare couch that looked inviting despite its age, and toys scattered across the carpeted floor—a testament to the young lives that played here, oblivious to the night's sorrow.

"We're so sorry," Sheila said, her voice a soft echo in the dimly lit living room. Finn stood by her side, his face a mask of professional empathy.

"Who would do this to her? She never hurt anyone," Vincent murmured, sinking into the couch as if his bones had suddenly given way.

"Did Vanessa ever mention feeling threatened or afraid?" Finn asked, his question gentle but probing.

Vincent shook his head, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. "No, nothing like that. She was passionate, sure, always fighting for what she believed in. But scared? No."

"Can you tell us about her work, her activism?" Sheila asked, watching the emotions play across Vincent's face.

He drew a deep breath, steadying himself. "Vanessa, she.. she loved the earth, you know? Wanted to protect it from harm. She organized rallies, wrote articles, anything to get the message out there." Vincent paused, his gaze drifting to a framed picture of Vanessa holding a 'Save Our Planet' sign. "She believed we could make a difference. That she could make a difference."

"I couldn't help noticing the number of calls you made to her phone," Sheila said.

"She was supposed to come over tonight and watch the kids," Vincent said. "It's Jen's and my anniversary, so Vanessa volunteered to babysit for us. We had reservations at a fancy restaurant downtown—excellent steaks, from what I hear."

"Where's your wife now?" Finn asked.

"At the restaurant. She's grabbing takeout…though I'm not sure I'll be able to stomach much anymore." He swallowed hard.

Sheila pursed her lips. "Was your sister religious?"

"Not really. Why?"

"Wasn't into any rituals or…unusual practices?"

Vincent shot a puzzled glance at Finn. "Why are you asking that?"

"Just trying to piece everything together," Finn said .

Sheila pulled out the book on astrology and set it on the table. Vincent stared at it for several seconds, then made a disgusted face. "Not that again," he said.

"You recognize it?" Sheila asked.

"The guy who wrote it, a local author named Brett Hawthorne, has been one of Vanessa's more vocal critics."

"Why would an author interested in astrology take issue with Vanessa's environmental work?"

"Because she often debunked the pseudoscientific claims he makes in his books. She said they distracted from the real, tangible harm being done to the environment. They argued on public forums and at town hall meetings. Got pretty heated sometimes."

Finn and Sheila exchanged a significant look.

"And he seemed to take her criticism personally?" Finn asked.

"Big time," Vincent said, nodding. "Vanessa was always blunt about her opinions—saying astrology isn't a real science, that kind of thing. Hawthorne didn't take kindly to it. He saw it as a direct affront to his work."

"Did he ever threaten her?" Sheila asked.

"No," Vincent said hesitantly, as if he wasn't quite sure. "Not that I was aware of. But when she talked about his work like that…you could see it in his eyes, something wild. Rabid, you might say."