CHAPTER SIX

The path wound its way through gnarly undergrowth before it opened up onto the salt flats. Sheila scanned the area with her flashlight. Boot prints crisscrossed in the soft ground, and her heart thudded painfully against her ribcage. A fine mist rolled in, coating the flats with an eerie sheen under the pale glow of the moon.

"Emily!" Sheila called out, her voice echoing across the desolate landscape.

There was no answer, only the howl of the lonely wind. Her apprehension heightened as she delved deeper into the salt flats. The boot prints began to wane, disappearing here and there where the ground was too hard or wind-swept for an impression.

A sudden movement to her left made her heart leap. She spun around, her flashlight skimming over a huddled shape on the ground. Moving quickly toward it, she found herself holding her breath, her heart pounding against her ribcage. The shape was a hoodie left crumpled on the ground. She crouched down and picked it up. It was thin and light, suited for the warm weather, but offered little protection against the night chill.

"Emily!" Sheila called again, hoping against hope.

The howling wind was her only response. Still, she found herself straining to hear over it, desperate for any sign of movement or life. She pressed onward, ignoring the silent warnings in the back of her mind that told her to wait for backup.

With every step, she cataloged what she saw—the angle of the moon as it hung heavy in the sky, the twinkle of distant stars, the cracked patterns of the salt flats beneath her boots. The flashlight swung from side to side, illuminating a landscape as alien and barren as any she'd ever seen.

"Emily!" Sheila tried again, but her voice seemed to be swallowed by the wind. She could barely hear herself over its incessant whispering.

And then she saw it. A flash of something colorful against the monochrome palette of the surrounding landscape. It was far to her right, just on the edge of her flashlight's beam .

Her heart pounded harder now as she quickly adjusted course and jogged toward it. The object came into view as a bright yellow scarf. Sheila reached down, her fingers brushing against the rough fabric. She recognized it immediately: This was the scarf Emily had been wearing in the picture Sheila found online. Apparently Emily had worn this scarf often, a little bit of sunshine on her otherwise monochrome barista outfit.

Sheila's heart hammered in her chest as she held up the scarf to the wind, watching it flutter like a wounded bird. Her throat tightened as she imagined Emily out here, alone and scared, miles away from the closest soul.

She knew someone was chasing her, she thought. Maybe she left it for us, just in case she got captured. She wanted someone to know she'd been here.

Suddenly, everything fell silent around her—the wind, the sounds of the distant night creatures, even her own heartbeat seemed to fade into nothingness. She had the haunting feeling of being watched. She spun around, shining her flashlight left and right. But there was nothing to see—only the endless expanse of salt flats stretching out in every direction.

She was about to press on when she heard a faint sound from behind her. She turned and focused her beam toward it, her heart pounding.

There it was again—a soft rustle of movement, like fabric brushing against the ground. It came from a small dip in the flats, just beyond where she stood.

"Emily?" she called, taking slow strides toward the source of the sound. The wind picked up, whipping Emily's yellow scarf out of her grasp and carrying it off into the darkness.

"Emily!" she called out again, louder this time. Silently, she pleaded for a response. Any response.

Suddenly, her foot brushed against something. She stumbled but quickly regained her balance. She pointed her flashlight at the ground. Her breath hitched as the beam revealed a discarded bag—a purse, small and knitted with multicolored yarns. It was dusted with salt and bits of debris from the flats.

She knelt and unzipped the bag cautiously, revealing its contents: a wallet containing an ID card with Emily's picture, a tube of cherry red lipstick, and a set of car keys .

She peered around at the wind-whipped darkness, wondering if Emily was still alive. But the darkness betrayed no secrets.

***

"Here," Finn said, nudging Sheila's elbow as he handed her a cup of coffee. As soon as the scent tickled her nostrils, she began to salivate in anticipation.

"Thanks," she said, accepting the cup and taking a sip. Hazelnut—just the way she liked it.

They had been out searching the flats all night, first on their own and then with a few dozen local volunteers. It was nearly dawn, and they had little to show for their efforts. Aside from the personal effects Sheila had discovered, the only other clue had been a crude symbol etched into the ground, a series of circles intersecting at odd angles. Sheila had recognized it from one of Brett Hawthorne's books on the occult.

"Any word on that symbol?" she asked Finn, nodding toward where a team was still working to document it before the wind could erase it.

Finn shook his head. "I called Hawthorne, but he didn't answer. I left him a message. Not really a surprise, given the hour."

Sheila nodded, taking another sip of her coffee, her gaze locked on the horizon as the sky began to lighten. Her thoughts were consumed by Emily and the fear she must have felt out here, all alone. Sheila felt a pang of guilt at the prospect of failing this woman she'd never even met. After everything with Natalie, her work felt extremely personal, as if every life depended entirely on her for help. She knew this wasn't true, but she felt that way nonetheless.

She looked at Finn, whose eyes were heavy with sleepless concern, mirroring her own feelings. In his own quiet way, he was just as worried. His gaze flickered to her for a moment before returning to the horizon.

"Maybe we should call it," Finn said. "The killer could've grabbed her, dragged her back to his vehicle, and taken her elsewhere. We might just be looking in the wrong place."

Sheila exhaled heavily, her hot breath misting in the chill of the early morning air. She knew Finn was right. It made sense, but giving up didn't sit well with her, not when there was a chance Emily was out there somewhere, scared and alone .

Just then, they were both startled by a shout from one of the searchers. "Over here! We found her!"

Sheila's heart gave a sickening jolt. She cast her coffee aside and sprinted toward the source of the shout, Finn close at her heels.

The group had gathered around a shallow depression in the flats, their faces pale in the light of the rising sun. It was Emily Greenwald, cold and lifeless on the barren salt. Her limbs were spread out like a snow angel's, leafy herbs left on her body in an all too familiar pattern. Sheila's stomach churned as she took it all in—it was almost identical to the crime scene they'd found Vanessa Hart at just last night.

For a moment, Sheila could only stare, absorbing the fact that Emily was dead and she couldn't do anything to change that reality. Through the icy grip of shock, fury built within Sheila. This was a second life taken too soon, a second young woman who deserved to live. Her fists clenched at her sides, her nails digging into her palms as she wrestled with the impotent rage boiling inside her. The injustice of it all fueled her resolve. She would find this monster and bring him to justice.

Finn's voice broke through her thoughts. "We need to call this in."

She nodded, unable to look away from Emily. "Go ahead," she said. She knelt beside the body, noting the clockwise pattern of symbols drawn around her—a grotesque halo in the salt. Dried herbs clung to Emily's clothes, far more shriveled than the herbs found on Vanessa, but that made sense. Emily had gone missing three days ago, after all, and by all appearances she had been killed the night of her disappearance. She might have escaped her killer for a while—hours, maybe—but it didn't appear she'd escaped for long.

"Those are astrological symbols," said an old woman who had been standing silent at the periphery of the searchers. She stepped forward, her face etched with lines that spoke of many years under the unforgiving Utah sun.

Sheila turned toward her. "You're familiar with this sort of thing?" she asked. "The symbols, I mean?"

The woman nodded. "Name's Margaret Doyle," she said, extending a hand gnarled from age. "I run a small bookshop in town, specializing in astrology and ancient texts."

"Thank you for coming out, Ms. Doyle," Sheila said, shaking her hand, feeling the weight of knowledge in those worn fingers.

Margaret's eyes were keen as they surveyed the grim tableau before them. "These symbols here," she began, pointing with a tremor to the markings around Emily's body, "they're part of the zodiac, but twisted, used in a way that's...unsettling. Could be some dark ritual, but I can't say for sure what kind."

Sheila nodded gravely, processing the information. A ritual killer using the cover of night and the vastness of the salt flats to enact his morbid tableau—it was a chilling thought. But the why was still missing, a puzzle piece lost in the shadows.

"Can you tell us anything about the herbs?" Sheila asked.

Margaret crouched down, her old joints popping as she moved. She plucked a leaf from the sprig placed on Emily's chest, bringing it close to her aging eyes. "This is mugwort," she said. "It's used in dreams and astral travel rituals. And this—" She pointed to another herb, a small shrub with vibrant purple flowers—"is vervain, often associated with love and protection spells."

Sheila looked at Finn, who was now on his phone reporting the crime scene back to the station. "Protection and astral travels," she muttered under her breath. The mystery seemed to deepen with every passing moment.

Margaret stood up, dusting off her aged brown slacks. "Whoever did this," she said, "they're very serious about their practices. Devoted."

"So I've gathered," Sheila said. "Thank you, Ms. Doyle."

With a respectful nod, Margaret retreated back into the group of onlookers, leaving Sheila to wrestle with the implications of the scene before her. She turned back to Emily's body, the sight of the young woman's lifeless form a stark reminder of the stakes.

"So Emily was taken first," Finn murmured beside her, following Sheila's gaze. "That means Vanessa was the second victim."

"Maybe."

He raised an eyebrow, puzzled. "You think Vanessa was killed first?"

"No." Sheila shook her head. "Emily was definitely killed before Vanessa was. I just don't think we can assume she was the first."