Page 40 of Silent Trail

The engine of Finn's car roared as Sheila pressed the accelerator, weaving through the dark, desolate streets. She could feel the leather steering wheel beneath her fingertips, gripping it tightly as she balanced her phone between her shoulder and ear.

The night sky was a blanket of blackness, pierced only by the headlights of the car and the occasional streetlight. Buildings and trees blurred together as she sped back toward Kyle Benedict's house.

"Come on, Natalie, pick up," Sheila muttered under her breath, her impatience growing with every unanswered ring. Her heart pounded in her chest, the rhythmic thumping echoing the urgency of her thoughts.

As the scenery raced by, illuminated by the car's headlights before being swallowed by darkness, Sheila's frustration continued to mount. She now believed that her sister and Finn were focusing their efforts on the wrong suspect, but how could she tell them if they wouldn't answer their phones?

Her grip on the steering wheel tightened, knuckles turning white. The car surged forward, its tires screeching against the pavement as she took a sharp turn. This wasn't just about proving a man's guilt anymore; lives were at stake, and every second wasted felt like an eternity.

"Damn it, Nat," she hissed, her breath fogging up the window for a moment before dissipating. "Where are you?"

The sound of the call connecting was abruptly followed by the beep of Natalie's voicemail. Sheila clenched her jaw, the muscles in her face tensing.

"Nat, it's me," she began, trying to keep her voice steady despite her mounting frustration. "I don't think Kyle is our guy. I have new information, but I need your help. Call me back as soon as you can."

Sheila exhaled sharply and ended the call. Gritting her teeth, she dialed Finn's number next. The rings were met with silence, and she knew his phone must be off—likely silenced during their interview with Kyle's parents. Her frustration bubbled over as she tossed the phone onto the passenger seat.

She groaned, gripping the steering wheel tighter. "What am I supposed to do now?"

The night outside was unforgiving, shadows cast by streetlights fleeing past as Sheila sped down the road. She could feel the urgency gnawing at her, and she knew that every second wasted brought the real killer one step closer to escaping. Going back to Kyle's house seemed like her only option, but the thought of wasting more time drove her mad.

As her mind raced, an idea struck her like a bolt of lightning. The blog—that online cesspool where she'd found all those hate-filled comments about the victims. Maybe there was a way to communicate directly with the person behind those comments to get him to reveal something about himself. It was risky, dangerous even, but it was the best shot she had.

"Okay," she muttered to herself, pulling over to the side of the road beneath the dim glow of a streetlight. "Let's give this a try."

Her hands trembled slightly as she picked up her phone again, fingers tapping rapidly on the screen to bring up the website. Sheila took a deep breath before diving into the process of creating an account on the blog. As she filled out the required fields, her heart pounded in her chest, a mix of fear and anticipation stirring within her.

By force of habit, she used her actual information: her email address, date of birth, name, and so on. Then, realizing it would be foolish to give away her identity, she decided to use a fake name instead: Sandra Peterson.

With her new account ready to go, Sheila navigated to the profile of the person she suspected to be the killer. The dim glow from her phone screen illuminated her face, casting eerie shadows across her determined expression. Her fingers trembled slightly as she scrolled through the hateful, threatening messages that had been left about each of the victims.

"Last online: 15 minutes ago," the profile stated. A glimmer of hope sparked within her—perhaps he was still awake, still reachable. But what could she say to grab his attention without sounding too eager or suspicious?

Sheila decided on a plan: she would pose as a fellow student who had connected the dots and knew he was the killer. More importantly, she would pretend to admire him for taking a stand against bullying, claiming to be a victim of it herself. That way, she could appeal to his twisted sense of justice and possibly unravel more information about him.

Taking a deep breath, she tapped out a message with calculated precision. Hey there, I saw your posts about those stupid bullies. My name's Sandra, and I'm a first-year at Clearview. I've been bullied in the past, and I can't help but feel a sense of...relief knowing that someone is finally standing up for us.

Sheila hesitated for a moment, then continued: I've always been curious about the final moments of life—when the soul leaves the body and all that remains is an empty shell. It must be exhilarating to witness such a transformation up close. Maybe even empowering…

As she immersed herself deeper into the role, Sheila felt a strange thrill in crafting this persona. She drew upon her own experiences of being sidelined and underestimated in life, weaving them into the fabric of her deception.

Anyway, she typed, continuing the message, I've been following the news closely, and I have a feeling you might be the one responsible for all of this. If that's the case, I just want to say thank you. Thank you for taking a stand against those who have made our lives miserable.

Her finger hovered over the 'send' button, heart pounding in her chest. This was it—the point of no return. With a surge of determination, Sheila pressed down, sending her message into the digital void.

"Come on, Sandra," she murmured to herself. "Let's see if you can catch a killer."

She sat back in the driver's seat. The night air was still and heavy, crickets chirping in the distance. She glanced at her surroundings, taking in the foliage that lined the side of the road. The shadows of tall trees swayed gently under the moonlight, casting eerie shapes onto the pavement. The occasional car rushed past her, headlights briefly illuminating the interior of Finn's car.

Her fingers drummed nervously on the steering wheel, a thousand thoughts racing through her mind. Had she just made a terrible mistake? What if her message had spooked him, sending him into hiding before they could catch him?

A pang of guilt twisted in Sheila's stomach, gnawing at her confidence. With each passing minute, her doubt grew stronger. In her desperation to solve the case, she wondered if she had inadvertently pushed the killer further out of reach.

As the minutes ticked by, Sheila began to lose hope. But then, her phone buzzed, jolting her from her anxious thoughts. A notification flashed across the screen: "New message."

Hello Sandra, the reply began. I must say, your posts intrigued me. It's refreshing to find someone who understands the importance of justice. So many people are content to let wrongs go unpunished, but not you—or me, for that matter.

Sheila's breath caught in her throat. This was it. She was communicating with the murderer. With trembling fingers, she typed her response, careful to maintain her alias.

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