CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The voices came to Piper in the dead hours, tugging her from dreams into the quiet of her childhood bedroom. Her eyes snapped open. Not again. Not now.
Danger, they whispered, a discordant chorus that existed somewhere between her ears and the shadows in the corners of the room. Someone will die tonight.
Piper pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes. The medication Dr. White had prescribed was supposed to help with this—to dull the sharp edges of these intrusions, to give her some control over when and how the voices reached her. But they had broken through anyway, as insistent as ever.
“Leave me alone,” she whispered, afraid of waking her mother down the hall. “Please, just let me sleep.”
No time, the voices insisted, growing louder, more distinct. No longer a jumble of sound but clearer now, as if they were leaning closer. You have to stop it. Only you can.
She realized that these weren’t the same as the frightening, disorienting voices that had driven her from home at sixteen.
These weren’t the terrifying hallucinations that had convinced her she was a danger to her family.
These were clearer, more focused. Like the ones that had spoken about Derek Sullivan’s red yarn and again about Amanda Hartford wrapped in green.
“Who?” Piper sat up, the blankets pooling around her waist. “Who’s in danger? Tell me who needs to be saved.”
The voices swirled around her, scattered and uncontainable. Cannot say the name. But we can show you where.
“That’s not good enough,” Piper hissed, frustration tightening her throat. “I need more than that. I need to know who I’m supposed to save and from what.”
No time. Get dressed. Hurry.
Piper hesitated, torn between the urge to wake her mother, to call Jenna, and the growing certainty that the voices were right—there was no time. If she delayed, if she ignored them, someone would die.
The voices were urgent. Dress. Go. Now.
Piper switched on the bedside lamp and slid from beneath the covers.
The bedside clock read 2:17 a.m. She pulled on jeans and a sweater, her movements quick and mechanical.
All the while, the voices continued their restless swirl around her, prodding her to move faster, to hurry before it was too late.
As she stepped into her sneakers, a new direction came—sharp, commanding. Go to the closet near the front door. You must take the scarf with you.
“What? Why?” Piper asked, though she was already moving out of her bedroom and toward the stairs. The house was silent around her.
Quietly, the voices told her as she made her way down the stairs. Quickly, open the closet.
Piper pulled the coat closet door open, wincing at the soft sound that it made. Inside hung an array of coats and jackets, with hats up on a high shelf above them.
The scarf, the voices insisted. On the left. The one with patterns.
She saw that a low shelf on the left side held several folded scarves. She reached for one, but the voices grew agitated.
Not that one. Behind.
Piper reached deeper into the darkened recess of the coat closet. On the far end of that shelf she brushed against something soft, tucked away as if forgotten. She pulled it out—a handknit scarf in variegated yarns of blue and purple.
“This one?” she asked.
The voices hummed in agreement, a sound like distant bees. Put it on. Now.
As she wound the scarf around her neck, an image crystallized—a woman with kind eyes, working wool into patterns. Then the image was gone and the voices still urged, “Go. Quiet now.”
She paused at the front door, doubt flooding her once more.
Was she really going to do this? Follow disembodied voices into the night on the promise of saving someone unnamed from an unspecified threat?
What if this was just another manifestation of her condition?
Dr. White had warned about acting on impulses without grounding herself first.
No time, the voices whispered, more insistent now. Trust. Follow. Save.
Piper took a deep breath, the scarf soft against her skin.
She unlocked the door, stepping out into the crisp September night.
The moon hung low and swollen above the tree line.
The voices surged around her, a current pulling her forward, away from the safety of home and into the silent streets of Trentville.
“Which way?” she asked.
Left at the corner. Toward the old part of town. The voices spoke as one now, directing with growing urgency. Hurry. Death has chosen the next color.
Piper broke into a jog, the night air sharp in her lungs. The scarf fluttered behind her as she turned left at the corner. Somewhere ahead, if the voices were to be believed, someone’s life hung in the balance. And somehow, she was the only one who could tip those scales toward survival.
*
Brenda Drummond tapped her keyboard with the precision of a court stenographer, each keystroke a small assertion of authority. The glow of her computer screen cast pale light on her face as she leaned closer, scrutinizing the latest thread on TownCircle.
Three in the morning, and here she sat, the self-appointed guardian of Trentville’s digital community, unable to surrender to sleep while there were still comments to moderate, still opinions to correct.
The recent murders had transformed the usually placid message board into a hotbed of speculation and fear—exactly the kind of chaos Brenda felt duty-bound to control.
“Ridiculous,” she muttered, deleting yet another comment that violated her strict standards.
People became so irrational during crises.
First Derek Sullivan—a town drunk whose absence was hardly a tragedy—and then Amanda Hartford, whose bitter downfall had been entirely self-inflicted.
Now the town was in an uproar, as if the end of these two troubled souls represented some grave threat to the community at large.
Brenda adjusted her wire-rimmed glasses and rolled her shoulders, attempting to ease the stiffness that came from hours hunched over her keyboard.
The small office—once a sunroom before she’d transformed it with her desk and filing cabinets—had grown cold.
Goosebumps rose along her arms, but she ignored them, too engrossed in her digital crusade to bother with something as trivial as physical comfort.
She had already composed and posted three separate messages that night, each one a masterclass in veiled condescension disguised as community concern.
The first reminded Trentville residents to remain vigilant but not paranoid.
The second outlined proper security protocols for homes and businesses.
The third, her favorite, subtly criticized Sheriff Graves for what Brenda perceived as ineffective leadership during this crisis.
Sleep had become an increasingly elusive luxury over the past few years.
Brenda’s nights had stretched into endless cycles of rumination and righteous indignation.
The insomnia had only worsened with each passing year, but she had transformed it into a badge of honor—while others slept, she stood guard, monitoring the digital pulse of Trentville through TownCircle.
Her eyes drifted to the phone sitting beside her computer.
Perhaps she should call Elena. They had an arrangement, after all—a civilized agreement between two insomniacs who lived right next door to one another.
If either found themselves unable to sleep, they were to call the other, who would offer chamomile tea and conversation.
It was the sort of mature friendship Brenda prided herself on maintaining, so different from the petty alliances she observed among younger generations.
Elena Bowers understood her in a way few others did. As the director of the community center, Elena shared Brenda’s commitment to maintaining standards, to elevating Trentville above the mediocrity that threatened smaller towns.
It was late, even by their standards. But Elena had called her at two-thirty just last week, distressed over some vandalism at the community center.
Brenda had welcomed her then, had listened to her concerns while steeping the perfect cup of chamomile.
Surely Elena would extend the same courtesy now.
Before she could make the decision, her phone trilled to life, vibrating against the wooden desk. Brenda started, then smiled at the name illuminated on the screen. As if summoned by her thoughts, Elena was calling her.
“Elena,” she answered, unable to keep the pleasure from her voice. “You’re awake at this ungodly hour too.”
“I can’t sleep, Brenda. Too much on my mind with everything happening in town.”
“I was just thinking about calling you myself,” Brenda confessed, settling back in her chair. “I’ve been on TownCircle for hours, trying to maintain some semblance of order. People are working themselves into a frenzy over these murders.”
“It is disturbing,” Elena agreed. “Especially the colored yarn. Such a strange detail.”
“It’s like something from a bad crime novel,” Brenda sniffed. “I’m sure there’s a perfectly logical explanation. Some disturbed individual with a simplistic moral code, looking to punish what they perceive as sins.”
“You sound like you’ve given it a lot of thought,” Elena said.
“I’ve always had an analytical mind.” Brenda couldn’t help the note of pride that crept into her voice. She remembered their long-ago rule—when one of them called, the other would invite her over. “But enough about these grisly matters. Would you like to come over? I can put the kettle on.”
“I’d love that. I need to talk to someone sensible right now.”
“Sensible is my middle name,” Brenda said dryly. “Come through the back door, I’ll be in the kitchen.”
They said their goodbyes, and Brenda set down the phone with a sense of satisfaction. Even in retirement, even at three in the morning, she remained needed, valued for her perspective and judgment. She closed her browser, abandoning TownCircle for now. Elena’s visit took precedence.
She moved from her office to the kitchen, her slippered feet whispering against the hardwood floors.
The house was quiet around her. From a cabinet beside the sink, she retrieved her best teapot—a floral porcelain piece inherited from her grandmother—and two matching cups with saucers.
Elena appreciated these small touches of civility, just as Brenda did.
As the kettle began to heat on the stove, Brenda arranged a plate of shortbread cookies she’d baked yesterday.
Despite the hour, despite the circumstances that kept them both awake, Brenda felt a pleasant anticipation.
These late-night conversations with Elena were among the few social interactions that didn’t leave her feeling drained or disappointed in humanity.
She moved to the back door, unlocking it for Elena’s arrival.
Through the window, the night appeared still and peaceful, betraying nothing of the turmoil that had gripped Trentville in recent days.
Brenda found herself wondering what color yarn the killer would choose next, what vice they sought to punish with their twisted moral justice.
The kettle’s whistle pulled her from these morbid thoughts.
She prepared the tea, adding just the right amount of dried chamomile to the pot, pouring the water at precisely the right temperature.
Everything had its proper procedure, its correct method.
That was what the younger generation failed to understand—the importance of rules, of order, of righteous judgment.
Brenda carried the tea tray to the small table in the breakfast nook that adjoined the kitchen, arranging the cups and saucers properly. Then she settled into a chair to wait, ears attuned for the sound of Elena’s footsteps on the back porch.