Page 49 of Silent Prayer

The bartender, a middle-aged man with kind eyes, approached her. "Rough night?" he asked, his voice sympathetic.

Sheila nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

"What can I get you?"

Sheila's hands clenched on the bar top. She shouldn't be here. She shouldn't do this. But Natalie's face swam before her eyes, accusing, disappointed.

"I...I don't know," she stammered.

The bartender studied her for a moment. "How about we start with some water? You look like you could use a moment to think."

Sheila nodded gratefully, accepting the glass of water he placed before her. As she sipped, the bartender kept a discreet eye on her, seeming to sense her internal struggle.

"Want to talk about it?" he offered after a while.

Sheila looked up, meeting his gaze. She saw no judgment there, just genuine concern. For a moment, she was tempted to pour out everything: the case, her fears, and her guilt. But she held back. He was a total stranger, and besides, he had his own life to worry about without hearing all her problems.

She decided to keep things vague. "Just...having a hard time," she said finally. "Feeling like I'm letting people down."

The bartender nodded sympathetically. "We all feel that way sometimes. The important thing is not to let it consume you."

Sheila's eyes drifted to the row of bottles behind the bar. Each label seemed to call out to her, promising a temporary escape from the crushing weight of her guilt and failure. Her fingers twitched, muscle memory from countless nights spent seeking solace at the bottom of a glass.

She could almost taste the burn of whiskey on her tongue, feel the warmth spreading through her chest as the alcohol dulled her senses. It would be so easy to give in, to let the familiar numbness wash over her.

The sound of the door opening behind her made Sheila tense. For a moment, she was sure it would be Finn coming to pull her back from the brink. Part of her hoped it was him, someone to stop her from making this mistake.

But when she glanced over her shoulder, it was just a stranger—a middle-aged man in a rumpled suit, perhaps coming in for a nightcap after a long day at the office. Sheila turned back to the bar as the reality dawned on her: nobody was coming to save her.

This decision was hers alone.

The bartender had moved away to serve the new customer, leaving Sheila alone with her thoughts and temptations. Her eyes fell on the TV mounted in the corner of the bar, its volume low but captions scrolling across the screen.

Suddenly, a familiar face appeared: Emily Davis, her photo smiling out at the world, unaware of the tragic fate that awaited her. The news ticker beneath announced, 'Fourth victim found in Coldwater Confessor case. Police have no leads.'

The words hit Sheila like a physical blow. No leads. They had nothing.Shehad nothing. Four women dead, and she was no closer to catching the killer than when they started.

In that moment, the last of Sheila's resolve crumbled. She raised her hand, catching the bartender's attention as he returned.

"I'll have a whiskey," she said, her voice hoarse. "Double. Neat."

His eyes crinkled with concern. "You sure about that?"

"Positive. Pour."

As the bartender reached for a bottle, Sheila felt a mix of relief and self-loathing wash over her. She was giving in, falling back into old habits. But at least, for a little while, she might be able to forget her failures.

The glass clinked on the bar in front of her, the amber liquid catching the low light. Sheila stared at it, her hand trembling slightly as she reached out. One drink. Just one to take the edge off. To help her forget, if only for a moment, the weight of her responsibilities and the faces of the women she had failed.

Just one drink.

She lifted the glass, the smell of the whiskey filling her nostrils, bringing with it a flood of memories—some good, many bad. As she brought it to her lips, Sheila closed her eyes, torn between desire and guilt, between the need for escape and the knowledge of where this path could lead.

Just one drink,she told herself again as the liquid spilled like fire across her tongue.

***

Sheila's head throbbed as consciousness slowly returned. She felt herself being lowered onto something soft—a bed? Panic surged through her foggy mind. Where was she? What had happened?

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