CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The car door closed with a dull thud, sealing Jenna and Jake into a bubble of shared concern.
Jenna sat there without turning the key, her own words ricocheting through her mind.
She's still here—and she might have already killed again.
She looked at Jake, whose face had hardened into the expression she recognized from their most difficult cases.
“So where to now?” he asked. “Back to the station to organize a search?”
“We have nothing concrete to go on. We don’t even have grounds to charge her with anything.” She shook her head. “But she's here. I know it. We should check to see if she’s registered at any local accommodation. Or if she’s rented a car.”
Jenna inserted the ignition key but hesitated again. Something was tugging at her memory.
“I’m thinking about Mom’s call,” she said. “She said Piper kept saying something about ‘twilight.’ I wonder …”
A flash of clarity broke through the fog of her thoughts. The words came back to her in her mother's voice, exact and clear: She lives in the twilight.
"Jake," she said, her pulse quickening, "I think I know what it means—' she lives in the twilight.' It's not metaphorical."
Jake frowned, processing. Then his eyes widened. “The Twilight Inn,” he said. “She's staying at the Twilight Inn.”
Jenna turned the key, and the engine roared to life. “It's exactly the kind of place where someone would stay if they wanted to keep a low profile without raising suspicions—cheap, minimal security, guests who mind their own business.”
“And it's just outside Trentville town limits,” Jake added, fastening his seatbelt as Jenna pulled out of the parking lot with more speed than caution. “Perfect if you want easy access to the area without staying within city limits. And only a half-hour drive from Pinecrest.”
The roads blurred past them as Jenna drove. The Twilight Inn was nothing more than a roadside motel, with room doors that opened directly to the parking lot. The kind of place where you could come and go at any hour without passing through a lobby or engaging with staff.
“Call Hugh Clancy,” Jenna said. “Let him know we're following a lead. We’ll need him to notify us immediately if anything comes up there.”
Jake pulled out his phone and dialed the receptionist desk at the Trentville Police Station, putting it on speaker as it rang.
“Trentville Sheriff's Office, Deputy Clancy speaking.” Hugh's voice filled the car.
“Hugh, it's Jake. I'm with Sheriff Graves. We're following a lead on the Hartley and Kingsley murders.”
“Oh?” Interest sharpened his tone. “What've you got?”
“We believe our suspect may be staying at the Twilight Inn. We're headed there now to check.”
Jenna cut in. “Hugh, I need you to be our early warning system. Anything—and I mean anything—that comes in that could suggest there’s a problem anywhere, that someone's in trouble, I want to know immediately. Even if it seems minor.”
“You got it, Sheriff. I'll keep the radio channel clear and my phone at hand.”
“Good,” Jenna said. “We're about twenty minutes out from Trentville. Keep the line open.”
“Will do. Be careful out there.”
The call ended, and silence settled between them.
“Do we have a photo of Vivian Crane?” Jenna asked, breaking the quiet.
Jake was already tapping at his phone. “Looking for one now. Her website should have something, or maybe social media...”
Jenna guided the car around a sharp curve, the wheels grabbing at the asphalt.
The road to Trentville cut through autumn-touched hillsides.
Normally, she would have appreciated the scenery—the rolling land painted in amber and russet.
Today, it was just terrain to be covered, distance between her and a killer.
“Got her,” Jake announced, holding up his phone.
Jenna glanced over, capturing the image in a fraction of a second before returning her eyes to the road: a woman with bright honey-blonde hair cut stylishly short.
Her smile was warm although her gaze remained cool.
Jenna guessed that the photo was taken a good many years ago, when Vivian Crane was still productive and popular.
“That's our best photo,” Jake said, scrolling through more images. “From her author profile.”
“She looks so... normal,” Jenna murmured. “Like someone you'd trust with your children.”
“That's the scariest kind,” Jake replied, his voice grim.
Jenna pressed down on the accelerator. The Twilight Inn was just outside Trentville, a relic from the days before interstate highways diverted traffic away from smaller routes.
She'd passed it countless times, barely giving it a second glance—a faded building with a neon sign, surviving on low rates and minimal expectations.
She knew the manager, but had seldom needed to check with him about anything involving motel guests.
If Vivian Crane was there, if their hunch was right, they might end this today. Before anyone else died. Before another fairy tale was turned into a nightmare.
“She won't be expecting us,” Jenna said. “If we're right, and she's there, we'll have the advantage of surprise.”
“And if she's not there?”
“Then we'll find what she left behind. People like her—they leave traces. Notes, plans, something. And we'll use whatever we can to track her down.”
They drove on, eating up the miles toward Trentville, toward the Twilight Inn, toward the woman who turned fairy tales into murder. The afternoon sun slanted through the windshield by the time the Twilight Inn materialized before them.
Jenna pulled the car into the cracked asphalt lot, gravel crunching beneath the tires as they came to a stop.
The motel stretched before them in a long, single-story line of doors, each one a possible hiding place for a killer.
She exchanged a look with Jake, then they both stepped out into the cool October air.
The motel hadn't changed in years—same peeling paint, same rusted railings, same faint smell of cheap cleaning products and cigarettes that seemed permanently embedded in the concrete walkway. A relic from another era, surviving on thin margins and thinner hopes.
“Office is still the same,” Jenna said, looking toward the small building at the end of the row with its glowing “Vacancy” sign. “Kent should be working today.”
They crossed the parking lot, boots scuffing against loose stones. A semi-truck rumbled past on the nearby highway, its horn a distant wail. The door to the office jingled as they entered, announcing their presence to the lone figure behind the counter.
Kent Wallace looked up from his computer, recognition smoothing the initial wariness from his features. “Sheriff Graves. Deputy Hawkins. What brings you two out here?”
Kent was somewhere in his fifties, with thinning hair and the perpetually tired expression of someone who'd seen every variety of human behavior his modest establishment could attract. He'd run the Twilight Inn for over a decade, inheriting it from his uncle.
“Kent,” Jenna told him. “We need your help with something.”
Jake pulled out his phone, called up the image of Vivian Crane, and set it on the counter. “Do you recognize this woman? Her name is Vivian Crane.”
Kent leaned forward, squinting at the screen.
Recognition sparked in his eyes almost immediately.
“Yeah, she's staying here. She looks older than she does in this photo, but I’m sure it’s her.
She’s been here for a couple weeks now.” He frowned slightly.
“But she's registered under a different name. Audrey Sanders.”
“What can you tell us about her?”
“She paid in cash for the first week,” Kent continued, “then used a credit card for the extension. One with that name, Sanders.” He hesitated, lowering his voice.
“Maria—she does the housekeeping—she mentioned the woman's got some strange stuff in her room. Artwork or something. Said it gave her the creeps.”
“What kind of artwork?” Jenna asked.
Kent shrugged. “Drawings, paintings. Maria said they looked like children's book illustrations, but...” he paused, searching for the right words, “not the kind you'd want your kids to see.”
Jenna stepped closer to the counter. “Kent, this woman is a suspect in two murders. We need to see her room.”
The color drained from Kent's face. “Murders? Here in—”
“In Trentville,” Jake confirmed. “Claudia Kingsley here in Trentville, and another victim in Pinecrest. Rebecca Hartley.”
Kent's eyes widened in recognition of the names, both of which had made the local news. “Good God. And she's been staying here all this time?”
“We believe so,” Jenna said. “Which room is she in?”
“Twenty-three.” Kent hesitated only briefly before reaching for a master key. “End of the row. Opening it is against policy, but under the circumstances...”
“Thank you,” Jenna said. “This is official police business. We'll take full responsibility.”
They followed Kent out of the office and down the weathered walkway, past a series of identical doors. Jenna scanned the parking spaces, noting the absence of vehicles near room twenty-three.
“No car outside twenty-three,” she murmured to Jake.
“Could mean she's out,” he replied, his voice equally low. “Or that she's left for good.”
She asked Kent, “What was she driving?”
“A rental,” he replied. “I can check on it when we get back to the office.”
Kent stopped at the door marked “23” and inserted the key. “I should warn you, she's paid through the end of the week. She could return anytime.”
The lock clicked, and the door swung open on protesting hinges. The smell hit Jenna first—fixative spray, and something else, something chemical and sharp. Kent remained in the doorway as she and Jake stepped inside.
“My God,” Jake whispered.
The walls of the small room were covered with illustrations—taped, pinned, or simply stuck to every available surface. But these were no ordinary children's book drawings. In the center of each was a doll with a painted face, depicted in settings from the old Grimm’s fairy tales.
But these new drawings were even more twisted and violent than the original stories themselves—the doll watching as Hansel and Gretel burned a woman alive in an oven, her skin blistering and peeling.
The doll perched on a bed as a wolf with a grandmother's bonnet tore into a girl in a red cloak, blood spraying across white sheets.
The doll standing over Sleeping Beauty, not with a kiss but with a knife, poised to carve away her beauty while she slept.
The detailed work was remarkable. Each illustration was meticulously rendered, lovingly detailed in a way that made the horror worse. On a small desk by the window, art supplies were scattered—paintbrushes, pens, a palette stained with crimson and black.
“The doll,” Jenna said, moving closer to one illustration. “She calls it Loyalynne.” The name was written in flowing script at the bottom of several drawings.
Jake carefully examined a notebook on the desk, flipping through pages. “It's all here, Jenna. Her rejection letters from publishers. Notes about Rebecca Hartley and Claudia Kingsley. The focus group that rejected her book about this doll.” He looked up, his expression grim. “We’ve found her.”
Jenna felt the same certainty. “She's our killer. And she's still active.”
Jenna turned to Kent, who stood frozen in the doorway, a look of horror on his face. “We need the make, model, and license plate number of her car. We need to put out an APB right away.”
“It's in her registration form. I'll get it for you right now.” Kent hurried back toward the office.
Jenna surveyed the room again, her trained eye cataloging details. A half-empty coffee cup. A grocery receipt from yesterday. A newspaper with obituaries circled. She was still here, still in the area, still hunting.
Her phone rang, startling her. Hugh Clancy's name flashed on the screen. She answered immediately.
“Hugh, what is it?”
“Sheriff, we just got a call from a Nancy Billings. Her grandmother, Ida, has gone missing. Nancy went to check on her after work, found the front door open, but no sign of her grandmother.”
The name Ida Billings was familiar, even if Jenna didn’t know the woman personally.
“What's the address?”
Hugh provided the information as Jenna jotted it down on the back of a motel notepad.
“We're on our way,” she said, ending the call.
She turned to Jake, who had heard enough of her side of the conversation to understand. His face had gone pale.
“A woman named Ida Billings is missing,” she confirmed. “Her granddaughter just reported it.”
The illustrations surrounding Jenna and Jake seemed to be watching them with malevolent interest. If Vivian Crane had already found her next victim, if she had already taken Ida Billings—they might already be too late. Right now, this killer could be bringing another terrible fairy tale to life.