CHAPTER EIGHT

"How early is too early to show up at someone's door?" Finn wondered aloud as he and Sheila stood on the porch of an old, moss-covered cabin belonging to Brett Hawthorne. The porch creaked under their weight, and the air was still and heavy with the smell of damp earth.

It hadn't been easy finding the cabin. Nestled within a dense forest, miles away from the town of Coldwater, the reclusive author had successfully hidden his home from prying eyes. There was a rusty pickup in the muddy yard, a pile of junk out back, and not much else to indicate anyone had ever lived here.

"Depends on who's at the door," Sheila replied, one hand resting on her hip while she knocked again with the other. She scanned their surroundings, still unsettled by the discovery of Emily Greenwald's body earlier that morning. She sure hoped Emily had been the first victim of the serial killer they were tracking, but they couldn't make any assumptions.

"And if it's two sheriff's deputies?" Finn asked.

"Then it can never be too early," she said. She knocked again, harder this time, the sound reverberating through the cabin's wooden structure.

Silence.

Sheila sighed in frustration, then turned to Finn. "Let's give it one more minute."

Finn nodded, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned against the porch railing. After a brief moment of silence, he cast a glance at Sheila and asked, "You think he's on the run?"

"Possible," she said, glancing at the rusted pickup. "Could have a second vehicle."

Before they could speculate further, the door creaked open and Brett Hawthorne emerged, looking every bit as disheveled as his cabin. His graying hair was tousled, his eyes ringed with dark circles, his attire consisting of a worn-out flannel shirt and stained jeans.

"Can I help you?" he asked, squinting at the two of them in the morning light .

"Mr. Hawthorne?" Sheila asked, flashing her badge. "We're from the Coldwater County Sheriff's Department. We'd like to ask you a few questions."

His gaze hardened as he leaned against the door frame. "About?"

Sheila held up the book they had found in the trunk of Vanessa Hart's car: ‘Celestial Sorcery: Harnessing the Powers of the Stars and Planets.' "Did you write this?" she asked.

"Yes," Hawthorne answered warily. "Why do you ask?"

"We'd just like to come in and ask you a few questions about it. Mind if we come inside?" Her gaze shifted to the dim interior of the cabin visible behind Hawthorne.

Hawthorne hesitated for a moment, then sighed and stepped aside. "Be my guest," he muttered. "But there's no extra coffee—I didn't know I'd be having visitors."

As Sheila and Finn stepped into the cabin, they were hit with the musty smell of old books. The small living room was cluttered with bookshelves filled to the brim: volumes on astrology, occultism, and ancient mythology lining the shelves. There were piles of manuscripts stacked on the floor, spilling over onto the worn-out armchair in the corner. A small kitchen stood off to one side, dishes piled high in the sink. The air was heavy and stale, as if it hadn't been disturbed in ages.

They followed Hawthorne through the narrow hallway into a room that looked like an office. The walls were adorned with charts, maps and diagrams, all astrology related. A desk sat in the middle of the room covered in more books and papers, a typewriter collecting dust at one end.

Hawthorne gestured to a dusty couch. "Please, have a seat."

As they settled down, he pulled over an old wooden chair and sat opposite them, his expression guarded. "What do you want to know about the book?"

"We found this book in the possession of Vanessa Hart," Sheila said. "You knew Vanessa, didn't you?"

"Knew?" Hawthorne glanced at Finn, puzzled. "Did something happen?"

"She's dead," Finn said. "Murdered."

"Murdered," Hawthorne mumbled and leaned back into his chair, shaking his head. "I can hardly believe it."

"We're told the two of you clashed a bit," Sheila said. "It sounds like she didn't think very highly of your…beliefs. "

Hawthorne crossed his arms defensively. "We had some differences, yes. But murder—there's no way I would…"

Sheila held up her hand to stop him. "No one's accusing you of anything, Mr. Hawthorne. We're just trying to understand." She leaned in a bit closer, eyes sharp. "This book was found in the trunk of her car, and we found symbols drawn in the dirt around her body that look very similar to the ones in your book. I think you can imagine why we were very eager to speak with you."

Hawthorne stared at Sheila, then at the book on her lap. He swallowed hard, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "There's a lot of people," he started, his voice shaking slightly, "who are interested in my work. Vanessa was just one of them. You think I wrote some book, and now I'm out there drawing symbols around bodies?"

Sheila didn't blink, didn't look away. "You did have some heated arguments with her, did you not?"

" Debates. We debated." He smiled uneasily. "Come on, now. So what if we didn't see eye to eye? Maybe she bought my book so she could tear it apart at the next public forum, attack my claims one by one."

"Mind telling us where you were last night?" Finn asked.

"Home," Hawthorne replied. "Alone. Just like every other night."

"And can anyone corroborate that?" Sheila pressed.

"I'm a bit of a recluse, in case you hadn't noticed. I don't exactly have dinner parties or poker nights."

"What were you doing?" Finn asked.

"Writing. I'm working on a new book. Now that I think about it, you could check the software—it takes screenshots every now and then in case something happens to the file. Screenshots with timestamps."

"Mind if we look at it now?"

Hawthorne shifted uncomfortably for a moment, then stood up. He nodded to a desk against the wall with what must have been one of the earliest computers still in operation sitting on it. "Go ahead," he muttered, stepping aside. "It doesn't have a password. Just don't delete anything."

As Finn started up the computer, Sheila turned her attention back to Hawthorne. "What about Emily Greenwald?" she asked, watching for his reaction. "Did you know her?"

Hawthorne's brows furrowed. "Who?"

"Emily Greenwald," Sheila repeated. "Young barista from town? Aspiring actress? "

"I don't think so," he muttered, rubbing his temples with his fingertips. "Should I have?"

"She was murdered, too. We found the same sort of astrological symbols drawn around her body. Also, there were these." She pulled from her pocket an evidence bag containing some of the dried herbs the killer had left on Emily's body.

Hawthorne peered at the bag, his brows knitting together. "Aconitum," he said, "also known as monkshood or wolfsbane."

"You know your herbs."

He nodded. "I grow some in my garden. Aconitum is toxic—can be deadly if ingested. Said to be used by witches for protection during rituals."

Finn sighed deeply as he rose from the desk and returned to the couch. The disappointment on his face made it clear he hadn't found anything incriminating. Hawthorne's alibi, it seemed, checked out.

Sheila, however, wasn't ready to leave just yet. Opening her phone, she navigated to the pictures she'd taken of the astrological symbols drawn in the salt around the two victims. She showed her phone to Hawthorne.

"Any idea what these symbols mean?" she asked.

Hawthorne leaned in to inspect the photo, his eyes narrowing as he took in each of the intricate symbols. The silence grew heavy in the room, and for a moment, Sheila wasn't sure if he was going to answer. Then he let out a low whistle.

"These are powerful symbols." He pointed at the first, a circle with a cross dividing it into quadrants. "That's the Sun Cross, traditionally representing earth, air, fire and water. And this one—" He traced another symbol, a circle with a pentagram inside, with his finger. "—is an Elemental Pentacle that represents protection."

"Protection?" Finn asked, raising an eyebrow. "Why would the killer need protection?"

"Maybe not physical protection," Hawthorne replied, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Perhaps from something spiritual or...cosmic."

Sheila shared a glance with Finn. "What do you mean by cosmic?"

Hawthorne shrugged. "I can't say for sure, but whoever did this...they weren't just playing around. These symbols suggest a deep knowledge and respect for old magic and cosmic influences. Everything points to an occult ritual—a cleansing ritual, specifically."

"Cleansing ritual?" Finn repeated skeptically .

Hawthorne nodded. "Some occult traditions believe in purifying the world by eliminating those who they deem corrupt or impure."

"Impure?" Sheila frowned. "What could have been impure about these two young women?"

"I don't know," Hawthorne said, leaning back and steepling his fingers. "Aren't you the detectives?"