Page 15 of Silent Ritual

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.”

---