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"I don't remember exactly."
"Try harder," Finn demanded, his tone icy.
"From six until eight the next morning, alright?" Sage stammered, her words tumbling out in a rush. "I swear, I just stayed home all night."
"And what about last month on the twelfth?" Sheila asked, referring to the night Natasha Petrova was murdered.
Sage shook her head helplessly. "A month ago? I have no idea what I was doing. I'd have to look at my calendar, check my notes."
Sheila stared at her. Even though it seemed clear to Sheila that Sage was hiding some things, it did not seem clear that she was necessarily the murderer. Something about her didn't fit the profile in Sheila's head, and she needed some space to figure out why.
"Excuse me for a moment," Sheila said, her brow furrowing as she tried to make sense of the conflicting information swirling in her head. "Finn, can you take over for a bit?"
"Everything alright?" he asked, giving her a puzzled expression.
"Yeah. I'll explain later."
Sheila stepped out of the interrogation room and into the sterile hallway, the door clicking shut behind her. She leaned against the wall, taking a deep breath. The air was heavy with the scent of disinfectant, which did little to calm her racing mind.
Sage's story didn't add up. Her fascination with death, the knife found in her purse, her lack of an alibi—it all pointed toward her involvement in the murders. But something about her demeanor, about the way she'd behaved during the questioning, nagged at Sheila.
"Damn it," she muttered under her breath, her fingers drumming anxiously on her thigh as she tried to piece together the puzzle before her.
"Something just doesn't feel right," she whispered to herself, closing her eyes and attempting to sort through the jumble of information. It was as if there were a missing piece, some hidden fact that would bring everything into focus.
As she stood there, deep in thought, the sound of Finn's voice filtered through the door. She couldn't make out the words, but his tone was insistent, pressing Sage for more answers.
"Come on, Sheila," she urged herself. "Think."
She replayed the conversation in her head, trying to pinpoint any inconsistencies or subtle clues Sage might have let slip. The mention of a ceremonial ritual had caught her off guard—could it be a key factor in the case? Or perhaps it was simply another lie designed to throw them off?
Whatever the case, she thought, I need to figure out the truth soon, because if Sage is innocent, then the killer is still out there—and the clock is ticking.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
What am I missing? Sheila wondered as she hurried through the police department, her eyes scanning the familiar surroundings. What is it about Sage Walker that just doesn't match up with my idea of the killer?
The dull fluorescent lighting cast a sterile glow over the rows of desks cluttered with paperwork, ringing phones, and hunched officers in various stages of exhaustion. The low hum of conversations buzzed around her as she navigated the maze of responsibility and justice.
Still wrestling with the nagging feeling that Sage wasn't their murderer, Sheila found herself unable to shake the image of the woman's fearful eyes from her mind. She needed to clear her head. Stepping outside, she took a deep breath, grateful for the fresh air that filled her lungs.
Her fingers twitched, a reminder of the urge that had been bubbling beneath the surface since the interrogation. Sheila could almost taste the burn of whiskey at the back of her throat. No, she couldn't give in now; she had come too far to let her demons win.
"Focus," she muttered under her breath, digging into her pocket to retrieve her phone. Her thumb hovered over the screen, contemplating a text to Star.
Hey Star, she typed, how are you doing? Missed you this morning. Sheila hit send, hoping to distract herself from her own turmoil by reaching out to someone else in need.
As seconds ticked by with no response, Sheila couldn't help but wonder how Star was holding up. Was she okay? Was she safe? The silence felt heavier with each passing moment.
"Maybe she's just busy," Sheila said, trying to quell her growing concern. Despite the girl's guarded demeanor, Sheila knew she had to keep trying. She tapped out another message: I'd still love to train with you sometime if you're up for it.
Putting the phone away, Sheila leaned against the cold brick wall of the police department, feeling its rough texture press into her back as she tried to make sense of the tangled web of thoughts racing through her mind. Star's silence and Sage's guilt or innocence weighed heavily on her.
"Star just doesn't let people get close," Sheila muttered softly to herself, thinking about the young girl's prickly exterior. "That's all it is. Nothing personal."
As she pondered this, a sudden realization hit her like a lightning bolt: The reason why she didn't think Sage Walker was guilty was because Sage wasn't the kind of person who could win others' trust. The victims had let the murderer into their homes willingly, but they wouldn't do that for someone like Sage, who only predicted doom and gloom for everyone. She didn't fit the profile.
"Of course," Sheila whispered, clenching her fists in determination. "Sage isn't the killer."
