Page 51 of Killer Knows Best

Most likely grief. She did lose her husband. In fact, everyone in this room has lost someone or they wouldn’t be on the proverbial pathway to peace—sans Jack and me. But I guess Jack lost his father in a way since he rarely talks about him. I’m guessing he’s just out of the picture, dead or alive. And my own father haspassed, violently so. And then, there’s the case of the missing sister.

I sigh hard at the thought of Erin and her unwillingness to let us know she’s still breathing. It’s selfish. But maybe she’s okay with the fact she needs to be a little selfish right now to survive. My father made sure we all paid a rather selfish price before he hit the ground after that bullet hit him.

I know that Erin needs to heal. But does she need to wound the rest of us while doing so?

“I met Phillis shortly after my husband passed away,” Brenda continues. “It was a dark time, and I thought I might never climb out of it. But Phillis, well, she showed me a new way of seeing things. A new way of understanding death.” She sniffs over at her friend. “Phillis’ own daughter passed away not long before I lost my husband.”

Brenda gestures to the photo of a beautiful young woman, a redhead with a winning smile. She looks about thirty. I stare at it for a beat longer than I should, surprised by how much older Phillis’ daughter looks than I thought. Somehow, I had imagined someone younger, a child maybe. I guess it makes sense. Phillis herself is an older woman.

“Phillis helped me see the light, so to speak,” Brenda goes on. “Most people believe in an afterlife. The good Lord Himself says He placed eternity in the hearts of men. If anyone can make you believe in seeing your loved ones again, it’s Phillis Hazelwood.” She pauses, glancing at Jack and me. “Eternity”—she repeats softly—“and all of its symbols have been explored in great depth in Phillis’ wonderful and thoughtful book. Let’s give a warm round of applause for best-selling author Phillipa Hazelwood.”

The room breaks out in polite applause as Phillis takes the stage. Her red hair is neatly combed and curled under her neck. She’s donned a maroon pantsuit with a shiny gold brooch of a heart that looks as if it’s split in two. Her expression is calm butdistant as if she’s already halfway in another world. She’s an older woman, but she carries herself like someone who’s already faced the worst life has to offer.

Death will do that to a person. Just ask the roster of women who were taken off this planet by a cold-hearted killer.

But then again, someone has made sure we can’t ask them anything ever again.

34

SPECIAL AGENT FALLON BAXTER

“Hello and welcome to one and all.” Phillis Hazelwood nods at equal portions of the crowd here in the conference room behind the Blue Creek Public Library.

Her voice is measured and gentle, but there’s something layered beneath it—something darker, maybe even dangerous.

I frown at the woman. I’ve never been a fan of dwelling on what comes next after this world, but Phillis seems to have mastered it.

“Life and death”—Phillis begins as her eyes scan the room—“two sides of the same coin. What we do here, in this life, it matters. It carries with us into the next chapter. We cannot escape it.” She pauses, letting the weight of her words settle. “Everything we carry, every choice, every mistake—it all follows us like a blessing or a curse.”

I glance at Jack as a feeling of unease builds in my gut, and it’s a feeling I can’t quite shake. Phillis speaks like she knows something—as if she’s already seen what’s on the other side. And whatever it is, it doesn’t sound good.

My father comes to mind again and I try my best to shove him right back out.

“What we leave behind,” Phillis continues with her voice soft but insistent, “our actions, our sins—they mark us. And some of us will be held accountable for those marks sooner than we think.”

The room is silent, save for the fact Buddy just gave a big sigh and it evokes a moment of levity as a loose round of chuckles circles the crowd. But Phillis’ words still hang in the air, heavy and ominous. And for the first time tonight, I wonder if she’s speaking to us or perhaps to herself.

All I know for sure is, this just got a whole lot darker.

Phillis continues speaking and her voice is a slow, steady pulse that penetrates the room like a somber lullaby. She definitely has the sort of voice that makes you sit at attention, but not because you’re interested—because there’s something in the tone that unsettles you—like you might miss the warning if you don’t pay close attention.

I glance at Jack and he nods my way. He’s not missing the warning either.

“Grief is a strange thing,” she says, folding her hands over the podium and the microphone picks up the slight crackle of her knuckles. “It follows you, even when you think you’ve outrun it. You wake up one day, years later, and it’s still there, waiting. And for some, that weight becomes unbearable. It’s a constant ocean of sorrow that rolls over you in waves and slams you to the ground when you least expect it. It’s raw at first, so very powerful you’re convinced it will take you under. But time, and I’m talking a lot of time—years even—it does help to ease the pain. But those waves still come when you least expect them. And I’m sorry to say, they will never really stop. But one day your body will give way and you, therealyou, will escape this world once and for all. And that is where your real life begins.”

A couple of people shift uncomfortably in their seats. Brenda nods solemnly from the side, as if Phillis is simply reiterating the Gospel.

Buddy sits with his head resting on my knee, and his eyes are wide open as if he, too, is catching onto the grave tension.

I glance at Jack and his eyes haven’t left Phillis. His jaw is set tight, and he has that look he gets when something is clicking into place. But I’m betting he’s not sure if it’s a piece of the puzzle or a whole new game board we’re dealing with.

Death and grief aren’t my favorite subjects, and I’m guessing they’re not Jack’s either.

“And in death”—Phillis continues as her gaze sweeps the room—“we find out the truth of who we are—of what we’ve carried, what we’ve left behind. It stays with us. Death doesn’t cleanse us. Itrevealsus.”

A quiet hush takes over the room, thickening the air until it feels as if you could slice right through it. Even the smell of the coffee and those sweet treats seem to have faded, leaving only the cold, crisp scent of a fall night creeping in through the door behind us. The glow of the lights overhead feels sterile and far too bright for the subject matter at hand.

Phillis gestures toward the photo of her daughter. “We don’t get to choose when we go or how we’re remembered. My daughter, Maddie—she was taken from me in the prime of her life. And it was grief that shaped me after that. Grief that led me to this.” She pauses, settling her gaze on the crowd. “But grief is also what made me realize there are things you can’t escape. Things you carry with you into eternity.”

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