Chapter One Violet
Chapter One
Violet
I used to think my silence would keep me safe.
That if I stayed quiet, kept my head down, I’d fade into the background of this quaint town.
I could outrun the past.
But it didn’t take long for me to realize silence in Sweetwater Lake was suffocating.
Especially when it followed murder.
I stood behind the counter at Isobel’s Café, my apron stained with chocolate, my hands sticky from pie filling.
I wiped down a tray that didn’t need cleaning and stared out the large front window. Outside, the autumn leaves were breaking away from the branches and fluttered to the ground.
People idly walked along the cobblestone sidewalk, and although they tried to seem like everything was normal, I could see the truth in their faces.
It was hard hiding the horror of death, and Sweetwater Lake was known as the final resting place for far too many souls.
Another body had been found early that morning—deep in the woods, but still too close to the lake trail. No name had been released, but there were always whispers.
Small towns thrived on gossip.
My stomach twisted as I stared at the counter and scrubbed it until my hands felt raw. I was lost in thought because I knew. I knew what this was.
All I had to do was see the body, the way it would have been posed. If it was missing a specific organ.
I needed to search for the symbol that would be carved into its flesh.
I stopped scrubbing and squeezed my eyes shut. Please let this be a random murder. Or were they coming back for me?
As the afternoon wore on, the coffee shop filled with locals whispering about the latest body found.
Mrs. Dunham from down the street leaned over the counter, her voice low.
“Have you heard? They say it was another young woman, posed like she was praying. The whole town’s on edge—folks are locking their doors at dusk now. ”
I nodded politely, but her words stirred the dread I’d been trying to bury, making Sweetwater Lake feel less like a haven and more like a trap closing.
My phone buzzed, drawing me from my thoughts. The screen showed a blocked number. I let it go to voicemail and shoved the cell back into the pocket of my apron just as the door opened.
“Welcome,” I called out, my tone even. Flat.
I felt the air change as soon as the man walked in.
He was tall, lean, and dressed in all black.
He looked like he belonged in a crime scene photo, not a coffee shop.
His presence felt out of place among the sweet scents and cozy decor, like a shadow slipping into sunlight.
But there was something about him that made me pause.
Perhaps the quiet confidence in his stride?
It had my heart skipping a beat for reasons I couldn’t quite name.
He took the table in the corner, and our eyes met.
Something in my chest twisted—recognition or dread, I couldn’t tell. He looked at me like he already knew me, and I tried to place if I’d ever seen him.
He didn’t smile. Didn’t speak. Just sat there, his big frame folded into the wooden chair like he belonged here.
My throat felt tight as I turned away, pretending to check the display of pastries we’d just restocked. My hands shook slightly as I adjusted a tray of cinnamon knots that didn’t need adjusting.
I could still feel him watching me.
Shaking off the weird feeling, I grabbed a glass of water and a menu, then made my way toward him. “Can I get you something?” I asked, forcing my voice to stay neutral.
His gaze didn’t waver. “Coffee. Black.” He kept his focus locked on mine. “Thanks.”
It wasn’t just his voice that made my skin tingle.
It was the cadence. It was calm, deep, and steady, like a low note held on a cello string.
It was the way the lighting caught the sharp line of his jaw, and the gray shade of his eyes that seemed to drink it in instead of reflect it.
His hair was dark and fell in disobedient waves across his forehead, no matter how many times he pushed it back.
Everything about him looked deliberate, even the imperfections.
I poured the coffee, placed the mug on a saucer, and carried it over. The air around him felt different—heavier somehow, like he carried the same shadows that had once followed me.
When I set the cup down, he looked up at me again. Really looked, like he was peeling away every layer of armor I’d built since moving to Sweetwater Lake.
“You’re not from here.” I kept my voice light.
His expression was blank. “I stand out that much, huh?” There was a faint twitch of his mouth. Not quite a smile. A little forced.
He took a sip of coffee, his gaze trained on me.
“I’d never heard of this town before coming here.
Just a blip on the map,” he said after setting his mug back down.
“But here I am . . . all these deaths suddenly happening.” He started rubbing the rim of his mug with his finger. “Missing people. Rituals.”
I said nothing, suddenly aware of how loud the clock behind the register was ticking.
He leaned forward slightly, bracing his forearms on the table, his dark trench coat making him look like some kind of undercover investigator. “Did you know them? The women who were murdered?”
My spine stiffened, and I pursed my lips. “What a strange thing to ask someone you just met.”
He smirked again, this one darker than before.
I didn’t respond, just turned and walked away because I didn’t know what else to say. I didn’t know how to feel or act.
I busied myself behind the counter, aware of every second that passed with him sitting there like a dark omen.
I didn’t know who he was. But I knew what he was.
A detective. A cop. Or something else.
I may not know everything, but what I knew for sure was this man missed nothing, especially not when he looked into my eyes and tried to discern who and what I was without even asking my name.
He wasn’t just passing through. He wasn’t here for the coffee. He was here for the murders.