Page 13 of Silent Ritual

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.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

As Fiona Blake packed the last of her paintings into the back of her minivan, she tried in vain to tell herself that the gallery hadn’t been a colossal failure.

Just one purchase, she thought bitterly. That’s all I’d need to pay rent. Just one.

Instead, a parade of people had gawked at her paintings, some even expressing how ‘refined’ and ‘sophisticated’ the work was—but none had been willing to put their money where their mouth was. Exposure was great, but if it didn’t lead to sales, Fiona’s little experiment would end in her crawling back to her dad’s fast food franchise and begging for her old job back.

She slammed the van door shut and winced at the sound of one of the paintings tipping over inside. She had brought plenty of materials to protect them during the trip back to her apartment—cardboard, bubble wrap, scotch tape—but when she learned that not one of her thirty-three paintings had sold, all of her careful preparation had gone out the window. The thought of meticulously wrapping and packing each unsold painting felt like an exercise in futility. Instead, she had just shoved them into the back of the van one after the other, as quickly as possible, like a bank robber eager to flee the scene of the crime.

Maybe I’ll just put them down by the road with a FREE sign, she thought. There’s got to be a hospital out there looking to cover some of that white wall space.

The van, which had been baking in the sun all morning, unleashed a breath of hot air as she opened the driver door and climbed in. She started the engine, rolled down the window, and drove out of the parking lot, trying to convince herself that it wasn’t time to panic yet. She still had a few friends who’d expressed interest in buying her paintings. If she could convince just one of them to pull the trigger…

Her phone began to ring. It was her dad.

Oh, great. He’s going to ask how the gallery went.

She considered ignoring the call, but knowing her dad, he would just get worried about her—and become even more persistent. Better just to get it over with. She tapped the green call button and put him on speaker.

"Hey, Dad," she said, trying to keep her voice neutral.

"Fiona, honey! How'd it go?" The excitement in his voice was palpable even through the tinny phone speakers. Fiona hated to deflate it.

She sighed. "About the same as when I took them to Felder University. Not a single sale."

"Oh..." There was a pause on his end of the line. The silence was deafening—the staticky void feeling like a judgment in itself. Then finally he spoke again, softer this time. "I'm sorry, sweetie. It's just... maybe people aren't ready for your talent yet."

His words were meant to comfort, but they simply twisted the knife. Fiona gritted her teeth, her grip tightening on the steering wheel. "Or maybe, I'm just not good enough," she said, her voice coming out with a bitter edge.

"Don't say that!" Her father's protest was immediate and vehement. "You're an amazing artist, Fiona. You just need to find your audience."

"Find my audience? Dad, I can't pay rent with 'finding my audience.' I can't buy groceries with exposure." The words spilled out before she could stop them, raw and pained.

There was another silence, longer than the previous one. Fiona hated that she was in this predicament, and she hated that she’d just confessed everything to her dad. She should’ve just lied to him, pretended everything was going great. The last thing she wanted to do was reinforce his belief that he needed to figure out her life for her and step in to save the day once again.

"I know it’s hard, Fiona," her father finally said, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "But remember, we all have setbacks in life. And I'm here for you no matter what."

His words brought a lump to her throat. Tears blurred her view of the road ahead, and she roughly wiped at them with the back of her hand. She wanted to argue, to tell him that she didn't need his pity or his help. But deep down, a part of her was grateful for his offer, even if it meant swallowing her pride.

She glanced in the rearview mirror and noticed a charcoal gray sedan with tinted windows behind her. Odd. Hadn’t it been there when she left the gallery?

“Then again,” her father continued, “maybe this isn’t the right time for you. You could always come back to the restaurant—"

"No!" Fiona interrupted, too quickly. She took a deep breath, trying to calm the storm that was raging inside her. "No, Dad, I won't go back to flipping burgers."

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