CHAPTER TWENTY
She had retrieved her own cruiser so she and Jake could split up to cover the twelve people who had attended anger management sessions at the community center.
Each had been interviewed, each seemingly genuine in their shock and fear, but the list from Paula Boatman had yielded nothing but dead ends.
Still, they had arranged protection for the most vulnerable among them.
Three deputies were now working overtime shifts, watching over those they’d deemed most at risk.
Their two potential persons of interest, Heather Banning and Paula Boatman, had been closely watched all day and were still being watched.
But they hadn’t done anything to arouse suspicion.
Jenna’s eyes burned from fatigue from all the aspects of their investigation.
Each blink was a momentary relief against the dryness that came with too many hours staring at records, statements, and the faces of nervous townspeople who now understood that a killer walked among them.
Even so, Jenna wanted to check on Piper before allowing herself a few hours of sleep, needed to know her sister was safe before she could rest.
Her mother’s house appeared ahead, its porch light still on and a single lamp glowing in the living room window.
Jenna felt a surge of gratitude that her mother was still awake.
As she climbed the familiar porch steps, the front door opened before she could knock.
Her mother stood in the threshold, wrapped in a faded blue robe.
“Heard your car,” Mom said, stepping aside to let Jenna enter. “I was hoping you’d stop by. There’s tea in the pot if you want some.”
Jenna kissed her mother’s cheek and followed her into the kitchen. The house smelled of something baked—cinnamon and apples—and the scent triggered a wave of nostalgia so powerful it momentarily dulled the edges of her exhaustion.
“You’ve been baking,” she observed, sinking into a chair at the kitchen table.
“Piper mentioned she used to love my apple crisp,” Mom replied, pouring tea into a mug and placing it before Jenna. “I thought it might help her feel more at home.”
“Did it?”
Mom’s expression clouded slightly. “She had a small serving. Said it tasted just like she remembered. But she’s been...distant today. Agitated. Frank says that Dr. White mentioned it’s normal, considering everything she’s been through.”
Jenna wrapped her hands around the warm mug. “Has she said anything about sensing things? About feeling connected to what’s happening?”
“She didn’t have to say it.” Mom sat across from Jenna, her own mug cupped between her palms. “I could see it in her face every time she saw the news on TV or heard me talking on the phone. She gets this look—like she’s listening to something nobody else can hear.”
“Frank said she did well with Dr. White today.”
“She did. And Dr. White gave her some exercises to help ground herself when the sensations become overwhelming. But Jenna...” Mom hesitated, her voice dropping lower. “Piper still keeps going back to the belief that it’s her fault. That she brought this with her when she came back to Trentville.”
“That’s not even possible, Mom. I’m sure this killer was already here. Derek Sullivan’s murder happened just after Piper returned, and we have no reason to think there’s any connection beyond her ability to sense violence.”
“Of course. I know that. And Frank told me he’d talked Piper through those very fears, and so has Dr. White. But even though she might have seemed convinced at the time, like I said, it just keeps coming back. I see how deeply she believes that her own insights are … evil, and it breaks my heart.
“Where is she now?”
“Asleep. Finally. It took her hours to settle down. Dr. White prescribed something to help with anxiety. Frank checked in earlier too.” Mom’s gaze drifted toward the ceiling, toward Piper’s bedroom above them. “I’ve been sitting down here listening for any sign that she’s having nightmares.”
Jenna sipped her tea, considering whether to go upstairs and look in on her sister.
“Maybe I should wake her up, talk to her about this. Make sure she understands she’s not bringing darkness to Trentville.
She’s just perceiving what’s already here.
And I can explain more about how I use similar insights for a good cause, to help solve cases. ”
“No,” Mom said firmly. “Let her sleep. Dr. White was very clear that rest is essential for her right now. Too much stress, too much talk about these murders, could push her into a more fragile state. And I really do believe that all the right words have been said. It’s just something so deeply embedded, something she’s believed for so long… ”
“It will take more time than we’ve given her so far to get over it,” Jenna finished for her mother.
“I never thought I’d have both my daughters back and still be afraid every time the phone rings,” Mom said softly. “All those years, I feared the call telling me they’d found Piper’s body. Now I have both of you, and I’m terrified for entirely new reasons.”
“What frightens you about me, Mom?”
“The risks you take as sheriff,” Mom’s voice quavered slightly.
“The way you put yourself in danger. But at least that was something with a purpose that I could understand. Now, knowing that you and Piper both have this strange gift … this connection to violence and death. It scares me in ways I don’t know how to think about. ”
Jenna reached across the table and took her mother’s hand. “We’re going to be okay, Mom. I’ve been living with my ability for years, and I’ve learned to use it, to control it instead of letting it control me. Piper will learn too. And neither of us is in any more danger because of it.”
“You can’t promise that,” Mom replied. “Not when there’s a killer taking townspeople’s lives. Not when both my daughters can somehow sense these horrible acts.”
“I can promise that we’re taking every precaution. Don’t forget that Jake and I are trained and well armed. We’ve set up protection for the people we think might be at risk now. And Frank is keeping an eye on both of you.”
Mom nodded, but the worry remained in her eyes. “Just be careful, Jenna. I couldn’t bear to lose either of you again.”
“You won’t,” Jenna assured her, hoping her voice carried more conviction than she felt. She drained the last of her tea and stood. “I need to get some sleep before I take over from Jake at three. Call me if anything happens with Piper, no matter how small it seems.”
Her mother followed her to the door, wrapping her in a tight hug before letting her go.
Outside, the night air had taken on the sharp edge that preceded dawn, though sunrise was still hours away.
Jenna climbed back into her car and sat for a moment.
Her mind felt like an overtaxed engine, running too hot and too fast despite her exhaustion.
Would she actually be able to sleep? Or would she lie awake, caught in an endless cycle of theories and fears?
*
The white yarn glowed under soft lamplight, pristine coils arranged on the coffee table like a sleeping serpent.
The woman felt the texture—softer than the red had been, thicker than the green.
Perfect for what was to come. A sense of rightness settled in her chest as she gazed at the yarn—the instrument of judgment that would soon fulfill its purpose.
Behind her, a bulletin board hung on the wall, its surface obscured by photographs, newspaper clippings, and neatly pinned notecards.
The faces of her previous subjects stared back—Derek Sullivan with his perpetual sneer, Amanda Hartford with her hollow eyes and bitter smile.
Red for rage. Green for envy. Their vices had been so obvious, so corrosive to the community she’d sworn to protect.
She glanced at her watch—nearly midnight.
The house was quiet around her, empty except for her presence and purpose.
In her mind, she replayed the executions, the way each had struggled briefly before succumbing.
Derek, drunk and belligerent to the end, had been physically challenging but morally straightforward.
Amanda, smaller and weaker, had barely resisted, as if some part of her had already accepted her fate.
Tonight’s subject would be even more deserving, but also different in certain other ways.
She wound a length of the white yarn around her palm, then unwound it slowly, methodically, like a ritual.
The previous kills had required careful planning—stalking Derek through darkened streets, picking Amanda’s lock in the nighttime silence.
This time would be simpler. A phone call.
A knock at the door. The subject would welcome her inside willingly, perhaps even gratefully.
The community would be better for it. Cleaner. More unified. Each removal was like excising a cancer, leaving healthy tissue behind to heal and strengthen. She was performing a service that others lacked the courage to provide.
From the kitchen, she retrieved scissors, cutting a length of the white yarn and testing its strength. Strong enough to hold, to create harmony from distress, to leave. She coiled it carefully, tucking it into a black canvas bag along with her gloves.
Everything was prepared. The alibi constructed, the method refined through previous experience. The subject’s routine was already well-known—predictable, rigid, a life built around passing judgment on others while remaining blind to their own flaws.
She moved to the window, pulling aside the curtain to gaze at the sleeping town.
Trentville remained unaware of the service she performed, the sacrifices she made to restore balance.
Sheriff Graves would never understand. Few would.
This wasn’t about personal satisfaction; it was about necessity, about community.
Returning to the table, she gathered the remaining yarn, caressing its unblemished surface. Just a few hours would bring completion. The third color in her carefully constructed pattern.
She switched off the lamp and stood in darkness, rehearsing the words she would speak in the final moment, when understanding would dawn in her subject’s eyes just before the light in them was extinguished forever.
“White is for self-righteousness.”