Page 27 of Silent Night

The memories swirled around Jenson's mind, tantalizingly close but never quite tangible. He clenched his fists, frustration building as the details of those murders slipped further away from him. His attempts to recall the exact sensations – the weight of their bodies, the feel of their skin beneath his hands, their final breaths – only heightened his agitation.

"Damn it!" he shouted, slamming his fist against the window sill, causing the rifle to rattle. Pain shot through his hand, but it was a welcome distraction from his growing anxiety.

As he stood there, breathing heavily, a chilling realization crept into his thoughts: The relief he sought, that intoxicating sense of control, couldn't be found in these fading memories. The only way to regain it was to experience it anew. To kill again.

"Waiting here won't change anything," he muttered under his breath, his voice laced with determination. "I need to take back control. I need to feel it...one more time."

With purposeful strides, Jenson moved away from the window and set the rifle aside. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for the hunt he was about to embark on. Every step toward the door felt like shedding another layer of fear, replaced with cold resolve.

"Let the police come if they dare," he whispered as he reached for the door handle. "They'll never catch me. They can't. Because I'm in control now—and I'm not going to give it up."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

"Is it really possible that Watchfield might go free, like he suggested?" Sheila asked, picking at a stray piece of lettuce on a table laden with the remnants of her and Natalie's dinner. The aroma of grilled chicken and sautéed vegetables still lingered in the air, but the recollection of Watchfield's words had robbed Sheila of whatever lingering appetite she'd previously had.

Natalie, her face illuminated by the soft glow of the restaurant's dim lighting, looked up from her plate and met her sister's gaze with an unwavering determination. She was no stranger to the darker side of humanity, having served as a sheriff in Coldwater for years. Her voice carried the weight of experience as she spoke.

"Sheila, the justice system isn't perfect," she admitted. "But there are plenty of good, hardworking people who are dedicated to making sure guys like Watchfield pay for their crimes." She paused, her eyes searching Sheila's face for reassurance. "With the evidence against him and his criminal record, I have no doubt he'll be locked away for a long time."

Sheila let out a slow breath, feeling the tension in her chest loosen ever so slightly. "I hope you're right, Nat," she said. "I just can't stand the thought of someone like him being out on the streets."

As she spoke, her fingers tapped rhythmically on the tabletop, a sign of her underlying anxiety. She couldn't help but feel responsible for bringing justice to the victims, even though this case fell far outside her usual realm of expertise. Watchfield might not be their murderer – the surveillance footage from his house had, after all, proven he couldn't have been at the Great Salt Lake at the time Jennifer's body was left there – but that only fueled Sheila's determination to bring the real killer to justice.

The restaurant, buzzing with the sounds of conversations and clattering dishes, was enveloped in a warm, golden glow from the overhead lights. Aromas of garlic and seared meat wafted through the air as waitstaff weaved their way between tables, deftly balancing trays laden with steaming dishes. A man at a nearby table nursed his beer, his eyes occasionally flicking over to Sheila and Natalie.

Just then, the door swung open, and a tall man stepped inside, carrying a military backpack slung over one shoulder. Sheila's gaze was instantly drawn to him, taking in the lean, purposeful stride that spoke of confidence and discipline. She recognized the unmistakable air of a fighter.

"Hey, sorry I'm late," Finn said as he approached, his voice warm and slightly gravelly. "Traffic was a nightmare." He paused, his gaze lingering for a moment on the man drinking beer nearby.

"Better late than never," Natalie said with a smile, gesturing toward an empty seat. "Have a seat."

Clearing his throat, Finn sat down and unzipped his backpack, pulling out a laptop and setting it on the table. Sheila helped move a few dishes out of the way to make room.

Finn's fingers danced over his laptop keyboard, the soft tapping a rhythmic accompaniment to the low hum of conversation and clinking of cutlery in the restaurant. Sheila couldn't help but be drawn in by the air of concentration that seemed to emanate from him as he worked.

"Sorry I'm late," he said, not looking up from his screen. "I've been trying to track down the origin of that nail we found at the crime scene, but no luck so far. It's like it came out of nowhere." He paused, furrowing his brow. "Maybe it has some sort of symbolic meaning to the killer? It clearly wasn't there for practical reasons."

Sheila considered his words, her gaze drifting to the half-empty beer glass on a nearby table. The amber liquid caught the evening light filtering through the windows, casting a warm glow on the wood-paneled walls. She wondered if the man enjoying his drink had any idea of the darkness they were delving into.

"Speaking of potential connections," Natalie said, "are you familiar with the app 'Birds of a Feather'?"

Finn nodded. "Never used it, but I've heard of it. Why?"

"Apparently Jennifer was using it. Sheila has a theory that maybe Jennifer met the killer through the app."

"Really?" Finn glanced up, looking impressed as his eyes met Sheila's. "That's an interesting theory. Do we know if the second victim, Hadley, used the app as well?"

"Not yet," Natalie said. "I reached out to her family, but haven't heard back. We were hoping you might be able to help us."

"Sure thing," Finn said, tapping away at the keyboard. "Shouldn't be too difficult to figure out if she has an account."

Curious, Sheila rose from her seat to stare over Finn's shoulder as he navigated through various screens and entered a series of commands. She marveled at the fluidity of his movements, each keystroke precise and efficient. He was clearly more fluent with a computer than she was.

She found herself holding her breath as Finn worked, exhilarated by the possibility of uncovering a crucial piece of information. The hum of conversation around them at the restaurant seemed to fade into the background, leaving only the steady rhythm of Finn's typing.

"Got it," Finn said, his voice low but triumphant. "Hadley Ferguson did have an account on Birds of a Feather. I created it last year."

Sheila felt a surge of excitement course through her, the implications of this discovery igniting a fire within her. They were one step closer to finding the killer, and she had played a crucial role in that.

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