Page 52 of Silent Ritual

Just as the man was losing himself in his thoughts, the bell rang, startling him from his reverie. He looked up to see Laura Simmons leaving the classroom, her friends trailing behind her like a flock of cackling geese. She was laughing, her face aglow with youth and ignorance.

His heart pounded in his chest as he fell into step behind them, blending easily with the crowd of students making their way toward the cafeteria.

He followed Laura, keeping his distance but never taking his eyes off her. She was flanked on either side by her friends, their heads bowed together as they laughed and whispered amongst themselves.

The man's eyes narrowed on the young woman. He'd heard her ridiculing the ideas he held so dear, laughing about the power of the stars. She was exactly like all the others. Unworthy. Ignorant. Ripe for the reckoning she so deserved.

"Hey, Laura!" a voice called down the crowded hallway, causing her to turn back. A tall, athletic boy with sandy hair was jogging toward her, a football tucked under his arm.

The man's eyes narrowed further as he watched the scene unfold. Laura waved back at the boy, a wide smile splitting her rosy face.

He knew that boy. That was Chad Rutherford, the senior quarterback and one of the most popular boys in school. He had his arm around Laura's waist now, laughing at something she said.

Anger surged within the man like a tempest. Here were two people who got everything they wanted—popularity, acceptance, admiration—laughing at those less fortunate, blissfully ignorant of their looming fate.

He would make them pay, all of them. And it was Laura’s turn next.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

“Let’s go over this again,” Finn said, spreading his hands across the table. “The killer leaves Fiona Blake’s body, then goes to the hot spring to hide the knife. Afterward he decides to return to the body and finds Stark closing Fiona’s eyes. That’s when Stark smells sulfur from the hot spring, but he doesn’t get a look at the killer’s face. How am I doing so far?”

“Sounds about right,” Sheila said, leaning back in her seat. They were in their car, still outside the hot spring. Above them, the sun began its steady descent toward the horizon. The gold-plated knife lay on the console between them, sealed in a plastic evidence bag. There were traces of something brown on the blade—mud or blood, more than likely.

Fiona's blood?

“So why does he hide the knife there?” Finn asked. “And why does he return to the body at all?”

“The spring could have ritualistic significance to the killer," Sheila suggested, her eyes locked on the knife. "He might have performed some sort of cleansing or offering ritual with the weapon after the murder."

"And returning to the body?" Finn asked.

Sheila chewed her bottom lip, deep in thought, before shaking her head. "I'm not certain yet," she admitted. "Perhaps he forgot something, or maybe it was part of his ritual to return to the scene. He may have done the same with the other victims, and we just don't know it."

Finn nodded silently, his gaze hardening as he stared out the car window into the fast-approaching night. The darkness was creeping in, swallowing the desert and blanketing them in a cloak of uncertainty.

“Well,” he finally said, “with any luck, we'll find some DNA on that knife and know exactly who we're dealing with. All we have to do is get it to the lab and cross our fingers.”

He sounded optimistic—relieved, even—but Sheila was far less enthusiastic. “And what if he kills again while we’re waiting for those results?” she asked. “Or what if the knife is clean—no DNA at all? We can’t just wait around for the lab to work a miracle.”

Finn looked at her. His brow furrowed, concern etched into every line on his face. "I know this is frustrating. It’s a slow process. But we're on the right track.”

“I just feel like we’re out of time,” she said, gazing out the window.

“Believe me, I understand,” Finn said gently. “But rushing things won’t make it any faster. We need to be patient and thorough.”

Sheila said nothing. She rubbed her forehead, sensing they were missing something.

“Those emails,” she began.

“The threatening ones? What about them?”

“We never found out who sent them to Natasha."

"Probably the same person who killed her," Finn said. "Doesn't do us much good, though, if we can’t trace them.”

“Actually, it does.” Sheila shifted in her seat and stared earnestly into her partner’s face. “It tells us about him. He was threatening her because she disparaged astrology, right? Does that ring any bells?”

Finn frowned, silent for a few moments. “Just like Vanessa.”

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