Page 48 of Silent Night

Russel fought like a cornered animal, twisting and thrashing in an attempt to break free. Sheila clung tightly to him, feeling the sweat on his skin and the power in his muscles. Then, in one fluid movement, he turned toward her, swinging the knife wildly.

"Watch out!" Heather shrieked.

Sheila released her grip on Russel and threw herself backward, narrowly avoiding the deadly arc of the blade. Her heart hammered in her chest, and she could taste both fear and determination on her tongue.

"Run, Heather! Get out of here!" she shouted, her voice raw with urgency.

Heather hesitated for a moment, torn between the desire to help and the instinct to flee. Seeing the danger Sheila faced, she finally nodded and sprinted away.

With Heather gone, Sheila turned her attention fully on Russel. She circled him warily, her mind racing as she tried to figure out how to disarm him without putting herself in more danger. The seconds stretched on like hours, each one filled with the potential for life or death.

Russel's eyes, wild with fury and desperation, locked onto Sheila as he brandished the knife menacingly. The dim light of the parking garage caught the edge of the blade, casting a sinister glint across his face.

"Stay back!" he snarled, his voice trembling with barely-contained rage. "You don't have any idea what I'm capable of!"

"Why are you doing this, Russel? Why are you hurting these women?"

"That's not my name! That was my father's name, and he—he was a monster!" Tears welled up in his eyes, threatening to spill over. "I'm Jenson! Do you hear me? Jenson!"

"Okay, Jenson," she said, trying to calm him. "I'll call you whatever you'd like."

Jenson went on as if he hadn't heard her. "He beat me, every day, for the smallest things. I told my mom, but she always took him back, no matter what!"

This sudden confession surprised Sheila. It sounded as if he had been holding this back for years, wishing he could tell someone. Now that he had nothing to lose, it seemed he had found his voice.

"Jenson, I'm sorry you went through that," she said. "But hurting innocent people isn't going to make your pain go away."

His grip tightened on the knife, knuckles turning white. "They're not innocent!" he shouted. "That's what you don't understand—this is their own fault!"

As Sheila listened to Jenson's anguished words, her thoughts raced for a solution. Her kickboxing experience might give her an advantage, but she needed to be careful not to push him too far. She imagined herself lunging for the weapon, her muscles tensing in anticipation of the movement. Would she be able to knock the knife out of his hand? Or would it only escalate the situation?

"Jenson, I know you're hurting," she said, taking a slow step toward him. "But causing pain to others won't heal your own wounds. You can get help. There are people who understand and want to support you. You don't have to continue this cycle of violence."

His face twisted into a grimace, and for a moment, Sheila thought she saw something shift in his eyes—a flicker of doubt. She pressed on, hoping her words were reaching him.

"Think about what you're doing," she urged. "Is this really the person you want to be? Someone who hurts others because they were hurt themselves?"

Jenson's eyes narrowed, a flicker of anger replacing the doubt that had momentarily surfaced. "They chose this, just like my mother chose to stay with my father," he spat, his grip on the knife tightening. "They didn't have to date me. They knew who I was, what I'd been through!"

Sheila's brow furrowed as she tried to decipher his twisted logic. "How did they choose it, Jenson? They couldn't possibly know what you were planning."

"Like Lot's wife in the Bible, they looked back instead of focusing on the future. She was turned into a pillar of salt for her disobedience!" His voice rose with fervor, his body shaking with the intensity of his emotions.

The mention of salt brought Sheila a sudden clarity. Both victims had been found encrusted in salt—a symbolic punishment, just like Lot's wife. So that was why he'd thrown the bodies into the Great Salt Lake. As revulsion filled her at the thought of Jenson enacting his own twisted form of divine retribution, she forced herself to remain calm.

"That's what the nail was for," he went on. "Judgment! But nobody understood! Nobody even talked about it!"

"Jenson, don't you see?" she asked, her words measured and urgent. "You're causing pain to your victims and their families, just like your father did to you. You're becoming the same monster you hate."

"Am I?" he snarled, the knife once again steady in his hand. "Or am I simply giving them what they deserve for their choices?"

"Nobody deserves what you've done to them, Jenson. Your victims didn't know what was coming, and neither did your mother when she stayed with your father. No one can predict the future, but we can change our present actions."

His wild eyes locked onto hers, and for a moment, Sheila thought she might finally be getting through to him. The air was heavy with desperation, and she could taste the metallic tang of fear in her mouth as she tried to appeal to the last shred of humanity within him.

"Jenson, you don't have to continue down this path. You can choose a different way, one where you don't hurt others and cause more pain. Your life doesn't have to be defined by your father's actions."

"You're right," Jenson finally said, his voice dripping with venom. "I am a monster, just like my father. It's in my blood, and there's no escaping it." He advanced toward Sheila, the wicked gleam of his knife reflecting her fear-stricken face. "And your death will be your own fault for interfering."

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