CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Brenda’s hands trembled slightly as she poured the amber liquid into Elena’s cup, the teapot suddenly feeling unnaturally heavy. There was something about Elena’s smile that hadn’t been there before—a coldness beneath the surface pleasantries.
“You’re very thoughtful tonight,” Brenda observed, setting the teapot down with a soft clink. “Something on your mind?”
“I’ve been thinking about what Sheriff Graves must be going through right now. Two murders in such quick succession. It can’t be easy.”
“Well, that’s her job, isn’t it?” Brenda selected one of her shortbread cookies from the plate. “Though I must say, this business with Derek Sullivan and Amanda Hartford has everyone on edge. I’ve never seen the TownCircle boards so active.”
“And what are people saying?” Elena asked.
“Oh, the usual speculation. Some think it’s a drifter passing through. Others suggest it might be someone with mental health issues.” Brenda took a small, precise bite of her cookie. “A few even whisper that it could be someone we all know—a respected member of the community.”
“And what do you think, Brenda?”
Brenda studied Elena, noting the unusual intensity in her gaze. They’d known each other for years, as neighbors, as community members. Yet tonight, something felt different, off-kilter.
“I think,” Brenda said carefully, “that monsters rarely look like monsters. They look like ordinary people until they reveal themselves.”
Elena’s smile widened slightly. “How perceptive of you.” She sipped her tea, then set the cup down. “Have you given any thought to the yarn?”
“The yarn?”
“Yes. Red for Derek. Green for Amanda. Do you think the colors mean something? The sheriff must have theories.”
Brenda shifted in her seat, suddenly uncomfortable under Elena’s unflinching stare. “I couldn’t say. Sheriff Graves hasn’t confided in me.” She attempted a laugh that came out more strained than she’d intended. “Though I suppose if there’s a pattern, it might help identify the next victim.”
“A pattern,” Elena echoed, nodding slowly. “Yes. Patterns are so important, aren’t they? But what might those colors symbolize, do you think?”
Brenda took another sip of tea to moisten her suddenly dry throat. “I’m not sure. Red is a violent color, I suppose. And green... envy, perhaps? Though that seems rather simplistic.”
“Red for rage,” Elena said, nodding. “Derek Sullivan was always angry, wasn’t he? At the world, at himself, at anyone who crossed his path. And green for envy.” She tilted her head. “Amanda Hartford certainly envied Heather Banning, didn’t she? Enough to file that ridiculous lawsuit.”
“You seem to have given this a lot of thought,” Brenda said.
“I have. I’ve thought about what color might come next.” Elena’s voice dropped lower. “If red is for rage and green is for envy, what might white symbolize?”
“White?” Brenda repeated.
“Purity, perhaps. Or emptiness.” Elena’s eyes bored into hers.
“Or maybe... self-righteousness. The color for someone who thinks they’re better than everyone else.
Someone who judges others from behind a digital facade.
Someone who decides which voices deserve to be heard and which should be silenced. ”
The teacup in Brenda’s hand clattered against its saucer. “Elena, you’re frightening me.”
“Am I? That wasn’t my intention.” Elena’s expression—that pleasant, neighborly smile—hadn’t changed.
“I’m just exploring possibilities. Thinking about community wellness.
About removing the elements that damage our social fabric.
” Reaching into her handbag, she added, “We have some important things to discuss.”
When Elena’s hand emerged, she was holding a pristine coil of white yarn. She placed it on the table between them.
Brenda’s breath caught in her throat as comprehension crashed over her.
The realization was so sudden, so complete, that for a moment she couldn’t move, couldn’t speak.
Her eyes flicked from the yarn to Elena’s calm face, seeing her neighbor—the respected Community Center director—in a horrifying new light.
“It’s you,” she whispered, her voice distant to her own ears. “You killed Derek and Amanda.”
“Killed is such a harsh word,” Elena said, rising smoothly from her chair. “I prefer to think of it as correction. Removing damaged threads from the fabric of our community. Just as Sophie would have wanted.”
Survival instinct finally kicked in. Brenda lurched to her feet, knocking her chair backward. The breakfast nook suddenly felt like a trap, the small table between them an insufficient barrier. “Help!” she screamed, though she knew her other neighbors were too distant to hear. “Someone help!”
Elena began moving toward her. “No one’s coming, Brenda. It’s just you and me and the restoration of balance.”
Brenda backed away. Elena was between her and the back door. If she could get into the hallway behind her … to the front door … if she could just reach her car keys hanging by the entrance.… She turned and bolted away.
Three steps into her escape, Brenda’s slipper caught on the edge of the carpet runner. She stumbled, arms pinwheeling as she fought for balance. The doorframe seemed to rush toward her. The last thing she registered was a searing pain as her temple connected with the solid wood frame.
*
Elena stared at Brenda's crumpled form. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen.
She had envisioned the struggle as she forced her face down on the floor, the whispered judgment as the cord tightened around her throat, the symmetry of the final arrangement.
But Brenda had stolen that from her with a clumsy stumble and the crack of bone against wood.
“Brenda?” Elena whispered, stepping closer to the motionless body.
A thin trickle of blood snaked from beneath Brenda’s silver hair where her temple had connected with the doorframe.
Elena crouched beside her, checking the pulse point on Brenda’s neck.
The faint flutter beneath her touch confirmed life still clung to the older woman.
Alive, then. This complicates matters.
Elena gently rolled Brenda onto her back. The retired teacher’s face was slack, eyelids closed but twitching slightly. A bruise was already forming where her head had struck the frame, darkening the pale skin.
“This wasn’t the plan,” Elena said aloud.
She realized she could still complete the task. Brenda’s accident changed nothing fundamental about her mission. The woman still deserved correction—perhaps even more so for disrupting the careful ritual Elena had designed.
She went back to the table where the white yarn still lay coiled and reached for the cord in her bag. At least it would be quick now, with Brenda already unconscious. No struggle, no fear in those judgmental eyes. Just a necessary end, clean and efficient.
Before she could get started, a distant wail pierced the silence—the unmistakable cry of a police siren cutting through the night. Elena’s head snapped up, her body tensing. The sound suggested a patrol car on the job somewhere nearby.
Not necessarily headed here, she told herself. Just a coincidence.
She returned her attention to Brenda, calculating her options. The woman might remain unconscious for minutes or hours—there was no way to predict. If Elena completed the correction now, she would have time to arrange the scene properly, to weave the white yarn in the pattern she had planned.
Then another siren split the night, this one closer. Elena’s pulse quickened, her earlier calm beginning to fray at the edges. She hurried to a front window, searching the darkness for the telltale flashes of red and blue. Nothing yet, but the sound was definitely nearer than before.
Could they know? Had someone seen her enter Brenda’s house?
No—that was impossible. The neighborhood had been deserted, curtains drawn against the night, not a single witness to her arrival.
And Brenda had invited her, after all. There was nothing suspicious about two neighbors sharing tea in the small hours.
Unless... unless they had somehow connected her to Derek and Amanda. But how? She had been careful. She needed to decide quickly—complete the correction or withdraw, leaving Brenda to wake with nothing but a headache and confused memories of their conversation.
Before she could reach a decision, a sharp knock echoed through the house. Elena froze. Not the back door, where she had entered. The front door—who could be at the front door at three in the morning?
The knock came again, more insistent this time.
For a wild moment, Elena considered fleeing through the back, disappearing into the night. But she would have to gather up her bag, the yarn, the cord—evidence that would show what had almost happened here tonight. And there were the cookies, the tea …
Smoothing her expression into a mask of concerned surprise, Elena stepped over Brenda’s prone form and moved swiftly toward whoever was out there, knocking again.
At the front door, she paused, gathering herself. She was Elena Bowers, respected director of the Trentville Community Center. A pillar of the community, above suspicion. There was no reason to panic.
The peephole offered a distorted fisheye view of the porch beyond. Elena pressed her eye against it, and her breath caught sharply in her throat.
“Sheriff Graves!” she murmured aloud. And then she recognized the scarf the woman at the door was wearing around her neck.
*
Piper stood on someone’s front porch, her body rigid with tension as the voices in her head multiplied like echoes in an empty hall.
Knock. You must knock again.
She had slipped out of her mother’s home without leaving a note, following their demand that she come to this place, this house, right now. Something was happening inside this house—something that demanded her presence with a force she couldn’t ignore.
Had she called Jenna? She couldn’t remember now. Everything after waking had been a blur of motion and compulsion. The voices had surged, drowning out rational thought, driving her into the night toward this house with its darkened windows and the faint glow of light somewhere deep inside.
Danger. Death waits inside. Stop it. Stop her.
Her hand rose once more, knocking with greater force. The voices blended now, no longer separate entities but a unified command that seemed to vibrate through her entire being.
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
Piper’s fist pounded against the door, the sound echoing down the silent street. Sweat beaded on her forehead.
“Please,” she whispered, though she wasn’t sure if she was addressing the voices or whoever might be inside the house. “Please.”
The door swung open. A woman stood in the doorway, her silhouette sharp against the warm glow behind her. Her eyes widened as they landed on Piper, recognition and shock flashing across her features.
“Sheriff Graves!” the woman exclaimed, her voice tight with an emotion Piper couldn’t quite identify. Not surprise, exactly. Something closer to alarm, or perhaps fear quickly masked.
The voices in Piper’s head reached a fever pitch, a hundred urgent whispers all demanding attention at once. She felt dizzy with their intensity, the world tilting slightly beneath her feet.
“I’m not—” Piper began, her voice sounding thin and distant to her own ears. “I’m not Jenna.”
The woman stared at her, confusion evident.
“I’m Piper,” she managed, though speaking required immense effort against the tide of voices. “Jenna’s sister.”
The voices surged again, a deafening chorus that made Piper wince.
Inside. Get inside. She’s in danger. White is for self-righteousness. Stop it. Stop her.
The world tilted further, colors bleeding at the edges of Piper’s vision. Her knees weakened, threatening to buckle beneath her. She reached out instinctively, seeking support, her hand finding only empty air.
“I need—” The words died in her throat as a particularly forceful communication pushed through the others, bringing with it a flash of imagery so vivid it momentarily blinded her—a woman lying unconscious, blood trickling from her temple, a coil of white yarn.
The woman in the doorway reached forward, grasping Piper’s arm. Her grip was firm, surprisingly strong.
“You don’t look well,” Elena said, her voice gentle, concerned. “Come inside. Let me help you.”
Every instinct in Piper’s body screamed warning, but the voices overwhelmed her ability to resist. They wanted her inside. They were driving her toward something—or someone—within these walls.
“I shouldn’t—” Piper tried again, but the world spun around her, reality blurring at the edges.
“Please,” Elena insisted, her grip tightening on Piper’s arm. “Let me get you some water.”
Piper felt herself being guided forward, across the threshold and into the house. The door closed behind her with a soft click that somehow sounded final, like the turning of a key in a lock.