Page 2 of Silent Ritual

The noise persisted, a metallic rattling. Swallowing hard, Vanessa turned on her flashlight and approached. “Hello? Is someone there?”

The sound stopped. As Vanessa advanced, an overturned trash can came into view. Vanessa took two more steps…

And then a pair of beady eyes surfaced over the edge of the trash can.

Vanessa gave a startled yelp, and the creature—a raccoon, by the look of it—raced off, disappearing down the bank of the river.

Vanessa breathed a sigh of relief, her heart rate returning to normal. She laughed at her own foolishness. Nothing more than a raccoon rummaging through the trash. This was nature, after all, and she was fighting to protect its very existence.

"Get a grip, Hart," she murmured under her breath, forcing her shoulders to relax from their defensive hunch.

Taking one last look around the desolate site, Vanessa gathered the remaining pamphlets and signs, stacking them neatly in the back of her SUV. Then she closed the back and went around to the driver’s door. As she climbed inside, she fumbled the keys and sent them clattering down into the abyss between her seat and the console.

“Now you’ve done it,” she muttered to herself.

Bending over the seat, she plunged her arm into the narrow gap and fumbled around blindly for the keys. Her fingertips grazed the jagged edge of something, then slipped past. She stretched farther, her breath catching as her hand finally closed around the elusive keys.

With a triumphant sigh, Vanessa pulled herself up and slid into the driver's seat, the familiar scent of leather and paper enveloping her. She thrust the key into the ignition and the engine roared to life, a comforting growl that promised a swift retreat from the day's tensions.

It was time to head home, maybe get a glass of wine to help her body relax. Yes, a glass of wine would be just the thing. She had that bottle of rose from the party last week—

As she glanced into the rearview mirror to back out, her heart stopped—there, visible in the faint glow of the overhead light, was the outline of a hooded figure seated behind her. The same figure she’d seen in the crowd.

A scream clawed its way up her throat, raw and primal.

The figure leaned forward, brandishing a cruel knife. "Drive," the figure said. "We're going on a little road trip."

CHAPTER ONE

Sheila Stone's cruiser crunched over the gravel as she pulled into the parking lot of the Dusty Bottle, a forgotten bar clinging to the fringes of Coldwater County. A neon sign flickered above the entrance, half-hearted in its attempt to lure patrons with the promise of cheap beer and refuge from the Utah sun, now retreating behind distant mesas. The lot was a wasteland of vehicles, their rusted bodies testament to countless storms weathered in silent defeat.

As Sheila killed the engine, her hands betrayed her with tremors that rattled her resolve. She clasped them together, summoning images of her mother's warm smile, now just echoes in the cold gallery of unsolved cases. Eddie Mills—each syllable of his name was a stone in her shoe, a constant irritant since the day she'd linked him to her mother's mysterious end. Justice had been a shy bird, always eluding grasp, but tonight, the possibility of its capture made her pulse thunder in her ears.

"Focus," she whispered, eyes fixed on the bar's scarred door. "You need to do this for Mom. You can’t screw it up."

With a deep breath that did little to steady her nerves, Sheila stepped out and moved toward the entrance, boots scuffing the dirt, mentally preparing for the confrontation that lay beyond the threshold.

The door creaked a protest as she pushed it open, stepping into a haze of cigarette smoke that embraced her like an unwelcome relative. The bar was a relic; its walls bore the scars of brawls and broken dreams, adorned with faded posters of rodeos and long-gone country stars. Yellowed light bulbs dangled from the ceiling, casting a sickly glow on the patrons scattered throughout the room. They were a gallery of hardened faces and wary eyes, each one pausing mid-sip or mid-drag to size up the newcomer. The clatter of pool balls ceased, the twang of a country song on the jukebox suddenly intrusive in the thickened silence.

Sheila marched to the bar, her badge a shimmer of authority amidst the dull wood and tarnished brass. The bartender, a man whose face seemed carved from the same gnarled wood as the bar itself, eyed her with open disdain.

"Eddie Mills," Sheila said, the name tasting like bile. "Where can I find him?"

The bartender's scowl deepened, his eyes flicking to the glint of her badge before meeting her gaze with unyielded obstinacy.

"Listen, lady, you can get a drink or you can get out," he said, wiping a glass with a rag that might have been white a few lifetimes ago.

Sheila felt a familiar fire kindle in her chest, the same heat that had driven her through Olympic trials and crime scenes alike. She leaned in closer, her voice low and steady. “I just want to know where he is,” she said. “Then I’ll be out of your hair.”

"Can't help ya," the bartender grumbled, his voice like gravel tumbling down a steep incline.

The floorboards creaked ominously behind Sheila, heralding the approach of trouble before a shadow loomed over her. She didn't need to turn to sense the bulk of the man who had decided to insert himself into the conversation—the reflection in the barkeep's wary eyes was enough.

"Law ain't welcome 'round these parts," the large man said, his voice a low rumble of thunder promising a storm.

"Last time I checked, this was still America," Sheila replied coolly, her hand resting nonchalantly on the butt of her holstered weapon. "Public place. And I'm just looking for some information. You should go back to your drink."

The man snorted derisively, leaning in so close Sheila could smell the stale beer on his breath. "Something tells me you wouldn't be standing here if it wasn't for that piece at your side."

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