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CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
Sheila clenched her jaw tightly as she sped down the road. The scenery blurred past her—rows of quaint houses with manicured lawns, the occasional storefront, and open fields giving way to the outskirts of Coldwater. Her heart pounded in her chest, a steady rhythm that matched her growing frustration.
"Come on, Finn, pick up," she muttered under her breath, glancing at her phone as it rang incessantly. She could feel every second slipping through her fingers like grains of sand, each one bringing Constance Gerring closer to claiming another life.
As the call went to voicemail, Sheila clenched her jaw, anger flaring within her. "Finn, this is Sheila. Whatever you're doing, drop it right now. We've got it all wrong—Sage Walker isn't the killer, it's her apprentice, Constance Gerring. I don't have time to explain everything, but I need you to call me back immediately."
She ended the call and threw the phone onto the passenger seat beside Sage Walker's journal, which she had taken with her on the chance it might contain more helpful information. Of all the times for Finn to be unreachable, he just had to choose the worst possible moment while interviewing Sage Walker.
The speedometer needle crept higher as Sheila recalled inviting the three psychics to the precinct. One of them had brought an assistant, a woman who was apprenticing with a few different palm readers in preparation for launching her own business.
Was it possible that woman had been Constance Gerring? Had she been right under their noses the entire time, hiding in plain sight at the sheriff's department?
Her thoughts were interrupted when a car suddenly cut in front of her, forcing her to slam on the brakes. "Are you kidding me?" she shouted, pounding the horn in frustration.
She was about to swerve around the car, but when she looked ahead, she realized it would be no use. The traffic was backed up due to a multi-vehicle accident that had left the road littered with debris and twisted metal. The flashing lights of emergency vehicles painted the scene in stark red and blue contrast.
I don't have time for this, Sheila thought, desperate to get through the gridlock.
She glanced at the clock on the dashboard, acutely aware that every moment wasted brought Constance one step closer to claiming another life. With a deep breath, she made a split-second decision, flicking on the siren and wrenching the wheel to the right. The car roared onto the sidewalk, narrowly avoiding a lamppost as it sped past the gridlocked vehicles.
"Sorry!" she shouted through the open window, her voice barely audible over the wail of the siren. Pedestrians scattered, eyes wide with alarm, clutching bags and jackets as they sought refuge in doorways and behind parked cars. Time was slipping away, and she had to reach Constance before the unthinkable happened.
A businessman yanked his briefcase back from the curb just in time, cursing at her; a cyclist swerved into an alley, struggling to remain upright. Sheila kept her gaze forward, wincing inwardly at the chaos she left in her wake.
The traffic thinned, and Sheila steered the car back onto the road, tires screeching as she rounded a corner. Finally, the apartment complex came into view, its modest facade offering no hint of the danger lurking within. The red brick building stood adjacent to a small park, children's laughter drifting over from the swings and slides. To anyone else, it was an ordinary day in an ordinary neighborhood.
But to Sheila, it was the battleground where she would confront a killer.
Slamming on the brakes, she threw the car into park and leaped out, her hand instinctively going to the holster at her side. Gravel crunched beneath her boots as she strode purposefully toward the apartment building. Her heart raced, her grip tight on her weapon, every nerve ending alive with anticipation.
This was it—the moment she'd been preparing for since she first learned of Constance Gerring's crimes.
Just as she reached the entrance, her phone buzzed in her pocket. She fumbled to answer it, her focus still on the building before her.
"Stone," she barked into the device.
"It's Finn. What's going on? Where are you?"
"Constance Gehring's place," she said, her eyes scanning the windows for any sign of movement. "Sage Walker isn't our killer, Finn. It's her apprentice, Constance."
"Wait, what?" Finn stammered. "How do you know that?"
"I don't have time to explain," she said. "I'm going in now. Gotta stop her before she hurts someone else."
"Damn it, Sheila, wait for backup!" Finn said, his voice tight with concern.
She shook her head, even though he couldn't see her. "There's no time, Finn. I can feel it—she's going to strike again soon. I have to do this."
"At least wait for me. I can be there in ten minutes."
"Ten minutes might be too late," she replied, gritting her teeth. "You get here as fast as you can, but I can't wait. I won't let her take another life. Gotta go."
With that, she ended the call, pocketed the phone, and squared her shoulders. Then she entered the building.
The narrow hallway was lined with faded wallpaper, and the faint scent of stale cigarette smoke hung in the air. She could hear muffled voices and the distant sound of a television from behind closed doors.
Her hands were clammy, gripping her weapon as she made her way down the narrow corridor. Each step brought her closer to Constance's apartment, where danger and potential death awaited. She paused outside the door, listening for any sounds within. But all she heard was the echo of her own racing heartbeat.
