Page 48 of Silent Prayer

Lisa shook her head emphatically. "No, never. Emily was...she was a light, you know? She saw the good in everyone. Even when people were rude or dismissive at the gallery, she'd just say they were having a bad day and try to cheer them up."

Sheila exchanged a glance with Finn. Emily's open, trusting nature might have made her an easy target for their killer.

"One last question, Lisa," Sheila said. "Did Emily mention any new spiritual practices or beliefs recently? Anything out of the ordinary for her?"

Lisa thought for a moment. "Not really. I mean, she was always trying new things, but nothing stood out. Last time we talked, she was excited about some meditation techniques she'd learned. Said they were helping her connect with her 'higher self' or something like that."

Sheila nodded, realizing they weren't going to get any new leads from this conversation. "Thank you, Lisa. You've been very helpful. If you think of anything else, anything at all, please don't hesitate to call us."

As Lisa left, Sheila felt a wave of frustration wash over her. They were no closer to understanding why Emily had been targeted or how she connected to the other victims. The Coldwater Confessor's motives remained as opaque as ever.

"What's going on in your mind?" Finn asked, his voice low.

Sheila shook her head, frustration evident in every line of her body. "I don't know, Finn. I can't see the pattern. The onlythings connecting Emily to the others are her age and gender. It's like...it's like he's changing his MO."

"Or we never really understood it in the first place," Finn suggested.

Sheila's heart sank. Had they been wrong all along? Were they chasing shadows while the real killer slipped through their fingers?

Finn must have noticed her reaction, because he shook his head regretfully. "I shouldn't have said that," he said, touching her arm. "We'll find him, Sheila, one way or the other. Don't start doubting yourself now."

Sheila nodded, but she didn't take any consolation from his words. She felt like she was drifting, lost in a sea of conflicting evidence and dead ends.

"I can't help but feel like I'm failing, Finn," she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. "Four women are dead. Four lives cut short, and we're no closer to catching this bastard than we were when we started."

She ran a hand through her hair, frustration evident in every movement. "I keep thinking about their families, about the fear spreading through Coldwater. People are looking to us for answers, for protection, and what do we have to show for it? Nothing but more bodies and more questions."

Finn started to speak, but Sheila held up a hand, stopping him. "I know what you're going to say. That we're doing our best that these things take time. But every minute we spend chasing our tails is another minute the killer has to plan his next move."

She looked around the crime scene, her eyes lingering on the shattered remnants of Emily's life. "I can't shake the feeling that I'm missing something obvious. That if I were a better detective, a better leader, we'd have caught him by now."

The weight of her perceived failure seemed to physically pull her down, her shoulders slumping. "I need some air," she said abruptly. "I need...I need to clear my head."

"Sheila, wait—" Finn started, but she was already moving.

"I just need some space, Finn," she called over her shoulder. "I'll be back soon."

With that, Sheila walked off into the night, haunted by the ghosts of the past.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

As Sheila walked, she pulled out her phone, her fingers hovering over her dad's number. She needed to hear his voice, to draw strength from his unwavering support. But when she dialed, it went straight to voicemail.

Hey, this is Gabriel Stone. Leave a message, and I'll get back to you as soon as I can.

Sheila listened to her father's gruff voice, finding a small measure of comfort in its familiar cadence. She thought about leaving a message but decided against it. What could she say? That she was failing? That she needed help? She ended the call without speaking.

As she continued her aimless wandering, Coldwater seemed to transform around her. The quaint storefronts and familiar landmarks took on a sinister aspect in the late-night gloom. Shadows lengthened, reaching out like grasping fingers. Every alley could be hiding a killer, every darkened window concealing a victim.

Guilt gnawed at her insides. Four women were dead, and she felt responsible for each one. If she'd been smarter, faster, better, maybe they'd still be alive. She'd been so close to catching the killer at the theater, but she'd squandered that opportunity.

Her thoughts drifted to Natalie, as they often did in moments of self-doubt. Her older sister, always so confident, so sure of her path. Until she wasn't. Until the darkness took her. Sheila's heart clenched as she remembered finding Natalie that day, too late to save her.

"I'm sorry, Nat," she whispered into the night. "I'm sorry I couldn't save you. I'm sorry I wasn't strong enough."

Lost in her thoughts, Sheila almost walked past the bar. The neon sign flickered weakly, casting a sickly glow on the sidewalk.She knew she shouldn't go in. Her history with alcohol was a demon she'd fought hard to overcome. But the promise of oblivion, of a brief respite from the crushing weight of her guilt, was too tempting to resist.

The bar was nearly empty, just a few late-night stragglers nursing their drinks in dark corners. Sheila took a seat at the bar, the familiar smell of stale beer and whiskey bringing back a flood of memories, both good and bad.

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