Page 12 of Silent Ritual

“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.

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