CHAPTER EIGHT
Jenna studied Bridget Henderson's face. Stress showed in the tight pull at the corners of her mouth, the uncertainty in her eyes. Jake stood beside Jenna, his notebook already open, pen hovering in anticipation of words that might prove crucial to Claudia Kingsley's murder case.
“It's just—” Bridget faltered. “It's hard to believe Claudia is really dead.”
Her voice cracked on the last word, and Jenna felt a pang of empathy. Death never arrived conveniently, never waited for the world to be ready.
“You knew her well?” Jake prompted gently.
“My son Tommy was in her class two years ago. My daughter Lily is in it now.” A trembling smile crossed her lips.
“They both adore her. She has —had— this way with children...
she could get through to the quiet ones, calm the rowdy ones.
Lily is going to be devastated. I don't even know how to tell her.”
“Was Claudia well-liked among the other teachers?” Jenna asked.
“Everyone respected her,” Bridget said, wiping quickly at her eyes. “She was private, but kind. She belonged to the same reading group I do, at the Dénouement Café.” She glanced up at Jenna. “Do you know it?”
“The bookstore-café downtown?” Jenna knew it well—a labyrinth of shelves and cozy nooks nestled in a converted Victorian house. “Leith Walsh's place.”
A genuine smile appeared on Bridget's face. “That's right. Leith is... an experience.”
“That's one way to put it,” Jake said, returning the smile.
Jenna had met Leith Walsh a handful of times—a woman who wore flowing scarves regardless of the season, quoted obscure poetry without warning, and was rumored to have a precise system of organizing books that only made sense to her. Eccentric barely scratched the surface.
“The reading group meets there once a week,” Bridget continued. “Claudia joined about three months ago. She always had the most interesting interpretations of the texts...” Her voice trailed off, her expression hardening slightly. “But that's not what I wanted to tell you about.”
With another glance back at the side door where Gregory Ashton had left, she squared her shoulders as if bracing herself.
“I think you should know why Claudia is no longer Gregory's student.” Bridget's voice dropped lower, though the theater was empty except for the three of them. “Something happened last week. Something... disturbing.”
Jenna leaned forward slightly. “Go on.”
Bridget took a deep breath. “Gregory scheduled what he called a 'special session' for his advanced acting class—the one Claudia was in. He told us to meet him here at the theater at eleven at night last Thursday.”
“Eleven at night?” Jake's pen paused above his notepad.
“He said artists needed to embrace the 'witching hours'—that true creativity only emerges when conventional constraints are left behind.” Bridget rolled her eyes.
“It's the kind of dramatic nonsense he's always spouting, but some of the students eat it up.
They think he's giving them access to some special New York theater wisdom.”
“What happened at this special session?” Jenna prompted.
“When they arrived, Gregory didn't even let them into the theater. He had everybody pile into two cars. We drove to Whispering Pines Forest.”
Jake and Jenna exchanged a glance.
“The park closes at sunset,” Jake noted.
"Gregory said rules were for ordinary people, not artists. We parked at the maintenance entrance, where there's no gate, and hiked about half a mile in with just flashlights. Gregory had the students form a circle in this small clearing. It was dark—no moon that night."
As Bridget continued, her disgust was evident.
“He'd brought a bag with him, and he took out several black masks, the kind that cover your whole face except the eyes and a small opening for the mouth.
He made each student put one on. Everyone except Claudia.
For her, he'd brought something different—a white mask, stark white, with just these slits for the eyes and mouth.
He told the class they were going to perform an exercise called 'The Judgment of Persephone.
' He said Claudia had been chosen to play Persephone because she was 'too controlled,' and needed to experience genuine fear.”
Jenna felt something cold and familiar—the recognition of calculated cruelty.
Bridget's voice had dropped to barely above a whisper.
“The others in their black masks had to surround Claudia.
They were instructed to move slowly around her, just whispering her name.
Gregory told them not to let her leave the circle, no matter what.
Claudia tried to laugh it off at first. But Gregory said that 'resistance only proves the necessity of the exercise. '“
“Did anyone else object?” Jenna asked.
Bridget shook her head. “They're desperate for his approval. He's constantly telling them that only one or two have real talent, that the rest are wasting his time. They compete for his praise like it's oxygen. No one has ever resisted like Ted did today.”
“What happened next?” Jake asked, his pen moving quickly now.
“Gregory stood outside the circle, directing. He told the students in black masks to move closer, then closer still. He instructed them to reach out and touch Claudia—just briefly, just on her shoulders or arms—then withdraw. Claudia said it was like being touched by ghosts.” Bridget swallowed hard.
“Then Gregory had them start chanting, 'You deserve this, Persephone. You've earned this judgment.'“
Jenna could visualize the scene—the dark forest, the masked figures, the isolation and fear. “How long did this go on?”
“Almost an hour. Claudia started crying about twenty minutes in, begged Gregory to stop.
He told her this was 'authentic emotion' finally breaking through her 'suburban housewife facade.
' He kept pushing, telling her to access deeper fears, to surrender to the experience. He told the others to whisper things to her—personal things.”
“What kind of personal things?” Jake asked.
“That's the worst part. Earlier that evening, before they left for the forest, Gregory had them all write down their deepest insecurities on slips of paper, things they'd never told anyone.”
Bridget's voice hardened with anger. "He collected them, read them all, then said he was redistributing them randomly, but he only gave them to Claudia.
So the things they whispered... about her failing marriage, about feeling inadequate as a teacher, about her deepest fears...
were her own thoughts being spoken back to her. "
“My God,” Jake muttered.
"The final part was the worst. Gregory instructed them all to go completely silent, to back away from her, but remain in a circle.
Then he approached her himself. He stood directly behind Claudia and whispered in her ear—loud enough for everyone to hear—that he could see through her, that everyone could see her weakness, her fraudulence.
He told her that her husband had left because he finally saw the emptiness inside her.
" Bridget's voice trembled. "Then he reached up and took off her mask, but told her not to turn around. He made her stand there, exposed, while the others remained masked and silent.”
“How did it end?” Jenna asked quietly.
“Claudia broke. Just like Ellen did today.
She collapsed to her knees, sobbing. Gregory announced that 'the transformation was complete' and declared the exercise a success. He instructed everyone to remove their masks and return to the cars. Claudia could barely walk—one of the other students had to help her back through the forest.”
“And she quit the class after that?” Jake asked.
“The next morning. She called me in hysterics.
Said she'd never been so humiliated, so terrified in her life.
She said Gregory had 'stripped her bare' in front of everyone.” Bridget's eyes met Jenna's.
“I told her she could report him to the theater board, but she just wanted to forget it ever happened.”
Jenna opened her mouth to ask another question, but a familiar voice cut through the theater's quiet.
“Are you accusing me of murder, Bridget?”
Gregory Ashton stood just inside the door he’d left through, hands thrust casually in his pockets. Jenna cursed herself for not hearing him enter. Bridget's face drained of color.
“How—how long have you been standing there?” she stammered.
“Long enough.” Gregory walked up the center aisle toward them. “I'm curious what prompted this little unauthorized interview with my staff.”
“Mr. Ashton—” Jake began.
“I'm only telling them something I thought they should know,” Bridget interrupted, her voice unsteady. “Claudia was murdered.”
“So I've heard.” Gregory seemed detached, almost bored.
“And naturally, you've decided my acting techniques somehow connect to this tragedy.” He gave a small, dismissive laugh.
“The exercise in the forest was a standard method for breaking down inhibitions.
Claudia's reaction was stronger than most, I'll admit, but that's the point of experimental theater—to push boundaries, to force confrontation with one's authentic self.”
He stopped a few feet away from them, his focus shifting to Jenna. “Theatrical training isn't for the faint of heart, Sheriff. It requires dismantling the artificial constructs of the self.” His smile widened slightly. “Something I suspect you understand quite well, given your profession.”
Jenna met his gaze steadily, feeling the calculated performance in his every word and gesture. “We're investigating a murder, Mr. Ashton. Every detail matters.”
“Of course,” he said with exaggerated understanding, then he turned to Bridget. “You're late for the design meeting. The set won't build itself.”
Bridget hesitated, looking between Gregory and the officers.
“Go on,” Jenna said. “Thank you for your time.”
Bridget gathered her bag, casting a final apologetic glance their way before heading toward the side door. Gregory didn't move, watching her leave before turning back to Jenna and Jake.
“In the future,” he said, his voice dropping to a colder register, “I'd appreciate it if you'd notify me before speaking with any of my staff. I'll need to contact my lawyer if this continues.”
“Is there some reason you feel you need a lawyer, Mr. Ashton?” Jake asked.
Gregory's smile remained fixed. “In today's world, Sheriff, everyone needs a lawyer. Especially artists who dare to push boundaries in backward little towns. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a theater to run.”
Without waiting for a response, he turned and followed the same path Bridget had taken, disappearing through the side door.
Jenna and Jake stood in silence for a moment, the empty theater suddenly feeling colder, more ominous.
“Well,” Jake said finally, flipping his notebook closed. “That wasn't suspicious at all.”
“He came back to check on what Bridget was saying,” Jenna noted as they made their way to the main exit. “He was worried about something.”
“Think he's worth adding to our suspect list?” Jake asked as they approached their car.
Jenna unlocked the vehicle, considering the question. “Psychological torture in the woods a week before Claudia turns up dead in the same forest? Yeah, I'd say so.”
They slid into the car, and Jenna started the engine, but didn't immediately put the car in drive.
“We should have officers watching him,” she said. “Like we already do for Keir and Grace.”
“I'll call it in. Think Ashton knew Keir Kingsley outside of Claudia's connections to both of them?”
“It's worth looking into. Small town like this, there's bound to be more connections than what we've seen so far.”
“Where to now? Back to the station?”
Jenna shook her head. “I want to check out this book club Claudia belonged to. Leith Walsh is probably at the Dénouement Café right now.”
As they pulled away from the theater, Jenna's thoughts were on Claudia Kingsley—standing masked and afraid in Whispering Pines Forest, surrounded by silent, judging figures, her deepest insecurities whispered back to her like a cruel echo. And then, dead in the nearby woods on her own property.
They reached downtown Trentville, and the Dénouement Café came into view, housed in a converted Victorian with lavender paint and gingerbread trim that resembled melting icicles.
On the wrap-around porch, three patrons sat hunched over mismatched wrought iron tables, reading dog-eared paperbacks and sipping on coffee or tea.
Jenna pulled the car to the curb. “Let's see what Leith Walsh can tell us about Claudia Kingsley and her reading habits,” she said, switching off the engine. “Sometimes the books a person chooses reveal more than their words ever do.”