Page 25 of Silent Night

"Which app was she using?" Sheila asked.

"Uh, Birds of a Feather, I think?" Watchfield replied, his brow furrowing as he tried to recall the name.

Sheila's heart raced as she recalled Jennifer's mother mentioning the same app during their conversation. Was it possible that the app held a clue to Jennifer's murder? Her mind whirled with potential scenarios.

"Mr. Watchfield," Natalie continued, "where were you early this morning, before dawn?"

Watchfield's eyes flicked between the sisters for a moment before he answered. "I was at home. Alone," he said with an air of confidence. "I have security camera footage to prove it."

"Security footage?" Sheila asked, her disappointment clear in her tone. Watchfield couldn't be the killer if he had a solid alibi, regardless of how desperately Sheila wanted him to be the one. She clenched her fists, struggling to accept that they might need to look elsewhere for their culprit.

"Yep," Watchfield replied smugly. "Had some break-ins recently, so I installed cameras all around my property. They record twenty-four-seven. You're welcome to take a look."

Natalie nodded, her expression unreadable. "We will definitely do that," she assured him. Turning her attention back to the case at hand, she continued, "For now, though, Mr. Watchfield, you are under arrest for the kidnapping of Clara Renfrew."

"Kidnapping?" he scoffed, his arrogance resurfacing. "That was just a game we were playing."

"Regardless of your claims," Natalie interrupted, her voice icy, "you will remain in custody while the investigation proceeds. Your arraignment will be held within the next few days, and your lawyer will be present to advise you during that time."

As she spoke, Sheila's mind raced with frustration, her thoughts a whirlwind of anger and disappointment. She couldn't shake the feeling that Watchfield was involved in Jennifer's murder, even if his alibi seemed solid. She watched as her sister finished explaining the legal process to the unrepentant man before them.

"Come on, Sheila," Natalie said, wheeling her chair around and heading for the door. "We have more work to do."

Sheila's clenched fists shook at her sides as they stepped into the dimly lit hallway. The weight of disappointment and frustration pressed down on her chest like a heavy stone, making it difficult to catch her breath. She had been so certain that Watchfield was their man, but his airtight alibi had shattered that hope.

"Sheila," Natalie said softly, wheeling her chair alongside her sister, her eyes filled with understanding. "We can't afford tunnel vision in this investigation. Jennifer deserves a thorough search for her killer, wherever that may lead."

"I know, Nat," Sheila said with a sigh, rubbing her temples as she tried to quell the headache forming behind her eyes. "But it's just…he seemed like such a promising suspect. What if he's lying about the security cameras, or he doctored the footage somehow?"

"We'll have our experts examine it carefully. Either way, he's not going to walk free for a long time, not if the DA can help it. But my gut tells me he wouldn't bring up something like that if he wasn't telling the truth. We need to explore other leads, exhaust all possibilities."

Sheila nodded, forcing herself to release the tension coiling inside her. As she did, her thoughts drifted back to the interview and the information they'd gathered. Her fingers brushed against her phone, and she remembered the notes she'd taken during their conversation with Watchfield.

"What about the app he mentioned Jennifer using?" she asked, pulling out her phone and tapping on the screen. "Birds of a Feather. It's the same one Jennifer's mother mentioned."

Natalie nodded thoughtfully. "Good observation. What do you make of it?"

"What if…" Sheila paused as the idea came to her in full. "What if the killer is meeting his victims through that dating app?"

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The flickering glow of the TV cast a sinister light on Jenson's face as he sat in his worn-out recliner, eyes glued to the screen. The news reporter spoke with urgency, her voice somber as she revealed the gruesome details of Jennifer Bainbridge's and Hadley Ferguson's deaths.

"Authorities are working tirelessly to identify the killer responsible for these heinous acts," she said. "It is unclear at this time what the killer's motivations might be or what caused this individual to target these two particular women. One thing is certain, however: The police are exhausting all options to find this monster and bring him to justice."

Jenson's hands clenched into fists, his knuckles turning white. His breathing quickened as he absorbed every word, feeling the weight of it all pressing down on him.

Monster, he thought. Is that what they think I am? Just some sick freak?

He was in his small shack near the lake, a place that had once brought comfort but now felt more like a prison. The room was filled with an odd mix of memorabilia and religious artifacts. A dusty crucifix hung above the door, while a dog-eared Bible lay on a side table next to empty beer cans and a stack of hunting magazines. The walls were adorned with photographs of happier times – fishing trips, barbecues, family vacations – all seeming to mock him now.

"It's difficult to say what would drive someone to commit such acts," a bespectacled 'expert' was saying on the TV. "Childhood trauma could certainly play a part, but it's important not to make any assumptions about…"

Jenson tuned the voice out, focusing instead on the drumbeat of his own heart. Why was he so nervous? Surely they would not reach him here, not in his most secret, most safe place? He shifted in his seat, trying to calm himself, but the relentless barrage of questions and accusations from the television only fueled his anxiety.

"Whoever this killer is, he won't remain hidden for long," a law enforcement official said. "We won't stop until he's behind bars."

Jenson took a shaky sip of his beer, the cold liquid doing little to soothe his frayed nerves. Suddenly, he couldn't sit still anymore, and he sprang from his chair, fingers gripping the bottle so tightly that it threatened to shatter.

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