CHAPTER NINETEEN
Sheila drove through Coldwater's quiet streets, squinting against the sunlight.
She had no destination in mind, just the need to move, to escape the suffocating weight of case files and crime scene photos.
The truck seemed to have a mind of its own, carrying her past familiar landmarks—the high school where she'd trained after classes, her father's gym where she'd learned to fight, the diner where she and Natalie used to share pie and secrets.
The cemetery appeared ahead, its wrought iron gates catching the light like ancient sentinels.
She hadn't planned to come here, but something in her had known all along where she was headed.
The truck's tires crunched on gravel as she turned into the entrance, following the winding path up the gentle slope where generations of Coldwater's dead kept their silent vigil.
Here, among the weathered headstones and whispering pines, both her sister and mother rested.
Their graves lay side by side—Natalie's marker still bright and new, Henrietta's worn by a decade of mountain winters.
Sheila hadn't visited in weeks, and she felt a pang of guilt at the realization, even though she knew neither her mother nor her sister would've held it against her.
She parked the truck and sat for a moment, watching early morning shadows stretch across the carefully tended grass.
Up here, the mountains filled the horizon.
The day was beginning to warm, but Sheila felt a deeper chill—the kind that came from knowing a killer walked free while she chased leads that led nowhere.
The kind that whispered of more victims to come, more bodies arranged with ceremonial precision in chambers of ice and stone.
She reached for her door handle, drawn to the quiet wisdom that sometimes found her here, among the memories of those she'd lost.
The grass was still damp with morning dew as Sheila made her way up the gentle slope.
Granite markers caught the early light, casting long shadows across carefully tended plots where Coldwater's dead kept their endless vigil.
The mountains loomed behind her, ancient and indifferent, hiding their caves like dark secrets.
She stopped between the two graves, her mother's weathered stone on her left, Natalie's newer marker on her right. Someone—her father, probably—had left fresh flowers on both. The bright petals seemed almost garish against the somber granite.
"Hey, sis," she said softly. "Mom." The words felt strange in her mouth, like pebbles. "Sorry, it's been a while."
The morning breeze stirred her hair, carrying the scent of pine and mountain sage. Below, Coldwater was coming fully awake, but up here the silence held steady, broken only by the occasional call of a morning bird.
"I could use some advice," she continued.
"About keeping people safe." Her throat tightened.
"I've got this kid now—Star. She's fourteen, tough as nails on the outside, but.
.." She thought of Star's vulnerability, hidden beneath layers of defensive armor.
"She trusts me to protect her. And Dad's involved now, too, helping me dig into Mom's case. Then there's Finn..."
She trailed off, remembering the man who'd been in her truck, warning her to back off or risk those she loved. The threat had been clear—keep pushing, and someone would pay the price.
"How did you do it, Mom? Balance the truth against the cost?
" Her mother had died for investigating corruption, leaving behind a family that would never fully heal.
"And Natalie... you always tried to protect everyone.
You looked after me so much after Mom died.
And then I was the very reason you got shot, the very reason you ended up in that wheelchair and… "
An image flashed in her mind: Natalie's lifeless body lying on the floor of her cabin, dead of a self-inflicted gunshot wound. Sheila pushed it away.
"I've got two cases now," she said, sinking to sit cross-legged between the graves.
"A killer who turns people into frozen exhibits, and a department rot that goes back decades.
And in both cases, other people's lives are in my hands.
" Her voice cracked slightly. "If something happened to Star, or Dad, or Finn. .. because of choices I made..."
The thought coiled in her chest like barbed wire. She could handle her own risks—had accepted them when she took the badge. But the people she loved hadn't signed up for this. They were vulnerable because of her, because she couldn't let sleeping dogs lie.
"I don't know how to protect them all," she whispered. "How to solve these cases without..." She gestured helplessly at her mother's grave. "Without history repeating itself."
The mountain breeze picked up, rustling through late autumn leaves. No answers came—they never did. But something about being here, between her sister and mother, helped settle her thoughts. Both of them had faced impossible choices. Both had paid terrible prices for their courage.
But they had never backed down. Never chosen comfortable lies over dangerous truths.
A raven landed on Natalie's headstone, its black feathers catching the light like polished obsidian.
Sheila watched it tilt its head, studying her with one bright eye as if measuring the weight of her troubles.
The mountain wind carried whispers of pine and sage, and somewhere in the distance, a church bell marked the hour.
Her gaze drifted to her mother's grave, to the dates etched in weathered granite. Henrietta Stone had died protecting truth, had sacrificed everything to expose corruption. And now Sheila sat between these monuments to courage, paralyzed by fear of what might happen to those she loved.
The raven shifted, adjusting its grip on the stone. Something about its patient watchfulness reminded her of Whitman—how he studied his victims, learning their passions, their weaknesses. He chose them carefully, drawn to their understanding of preservation, of how knowledge endured through time.
"He waits," she said softly, the words carried away by the mountain breeze. "Studies them. Learns exactly what kind of discovery would make them take risks."
The thought settled like frost on granite. Whitman didn't just kill his victims—he seduced them with the promise of academic validation. Kane, Mitchell, Harper—each one drawn out by the possibility of finding evidence that would prove their theories correct.
"He's patient," she continued, the pieces clicking into place. "Methodical. But what if..."
The raven cocked its head, and Sheila felt a familiar tightness in her chest—the same feeling she'd had before major kickboxing fights, when everything narrowed to a single point of clarity.
"What if we didn't wait for him to choose?" The words tasted dangerous, like copper and adrenaline. "What if we gave him the perfect target? Someone whose research aligned exactly with his mission?"
She stood slowly, brushing grass from her jeans. The mountains loomed beyond the cemetery, their caves holding secrets in chambers of ice and stone. But for the first time since Rachel Harper's death, Sheila felt something other than helpless rage.
"It would have to be someone trained," she told the graves. "Someone who understood the risks, who could handle themselves if things went wrong." Her hand brushed her weapon unconsciously. "Not an innocent academic he could easily overpower."
The raven launched itself into the morning sky, a dark shadow against the rising sun. Sheila watched it disappear toward the mountains, thinking of how Whitman had studied his victims, how he'd learned their work well enough to offer exactly the right bait.
"I'd be endangering someone," she admitted to the silent stones. "Asking them to walk into danger." Her throat tightened. "But if we don't stop him..."
She let the thought hang unfinished. More bodies would follow. The cycle would continue until someone forced Whitman's hand, made him reveal himself.
"Sometimes," she said softly to her mother's grave, "the only way to protect people is to take the fight to the enemy." She turned to Natalie's marker. "And sometimes the hardest part is asking others to share that risk."
The mountain wind picked up, carrying the scent of coming winter. Somewhere in those peaks, Whitman was already planning his next preservation. But this time, Sheila intended to choose his target for him.
She touched both headstones gently before walking back to her truck, her steps carrying new purpose. The idea was dangerous, potentially unethical. But as she drove down the winding cemetery road, she knew it was their best chance to end this.
They would create the perfect target—an academic studying preservation techniques, someone whose research would be irresistible to Whitman. But unlike his previous victims, this one would be ready for him.
The only question was: who would be willing to play bait for a killer who turned people into frozen exhibits?