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"Come on, there has to be something here," she whispered to herself, her fingers brushing against a stack of papers held together by a paperclip. She pulled them free, squinting at the hastily scrawled writing. It wasn't what she was looking for, but she pressed on, undeterred.
Her hands moved with precision, fueled by adrenaline and the knowledge that another life could be at stake. As she continued to search, her mind raced with thoughts of Juliette and Natasha, refusing to let their faces fade from her memory. They were her motivation, driving her forward in her quest for justice.
Her desperate fingers brushed against a small, unassuming black notebook hidden beneath a pile of scattered tarot cards. A shiver ran down her spine as the room seemed to grow colder. With bated breath, she picked up the notebook, hoping it held the answers she needed.
As Sheila opened the notebook, her eyes were greeted with a chaotic mess of notes. Sage's handwriting was nearly illegible—a whirlwind of loops, curls, and erratic lines that made Sheila's head spin. It was as if the words themselves were trying to escape from the page, refusing to give away their secrets easily.
"Come on," Sheila muttered under her breath, her eyes scanning the pages with fierce determination. She mentally filtered out any irrelevant information, focusing only on the names of the victims: Juliette Reed and Natasha Petrova. She flipped through the pages with increasing frustration, feeling the weight of time pressing down on her shoulders like an invisible force.
Finally, Sheila found something unexpected: a section in which several pages had been violently torn out. The jagged edges stared back at her like a taunting grin, daring her to discover what lay hidden. Her gut clenched with unease, sensing that this was no mere coincidence.
With renewed purpose, Sheila scanned the room for any sign of a wastebasket, her instincts screaming that the missing pages were crucial to cracking the case open. Spotting a small bin tucked beneath the desk, she crouched down and began digging through the discarded trash, determined not to let anything stand in her way.
"Please," she whispered, her voice tremulous with hope and fear. "Just give me something to work with."
Her hands delved deeper into the mess, finally finding two crumpled papers that bore the unmistakable signs of having been torn from the notebook.
Sheila's hands trembled with excitement as she flattened the crumpled papers on Sage's desk. The writing was hasty, ink smudged in places, but there was no mistaking it—both Juliette Reed and Natasha Petrova were mentioned. Her mind reeled with the implications. Sage had lied; she had met with the victims after all.
"Damn it," Sheila muttered under her breath. She clenched her fists, trying to suppress a rising sense of anger and betrayal. Why would Sage lie? Did she have something to hide? Maybe she was guilty after all.
It was difficult to imagine the victims letting Sage into their homes willingly, but perhaps she had coerced them, intimidated them somehow. Sheila knew that desperate people could be easily manipulated, especially by someone as skilled as Sage Walker.
As she was about to put the journal away, Sheila noticed another recurring detail: the initials 'C.G.' appeared throughout the notes. Who or what was C.G.? A person, perhaps? Curious, she continued to study the journal, searching for any clues to the mysterious C.G.'s identity.
Soon, she discovered that C.G. had been present at the meetings with both of the victims, as well as with several other clients. This couldn't be a coincidence. There had to be a connection, something tying everything together.
"Who are you, C.G.?" Sheila whispered, frustration mounting as she tried to make sense of the cryptic references. "What's your role in all this?"
She needed answers, and she needed them fast. Time was slipping away, and she couldn't shake the feeling that the killer was closing in on their next victim. With each tick of the clock, the stakes grew higher, and the need for justice only intensified.
Her fingers traced the words on the journal page, her eyes narrowing as she read a particularly scathing remark about C.G. Too timid and afraid of confrontation, Sage had written. C.G. will never be a successful psychic herself—she can't handle the harsh truths that our clients need to hear.
"Maybe it's not just Sage I should be looking at," Sheila mused, her mind racing with possibilities. If C.G. was present for all those meetings, including the ones with Juliette and Natasha, could she be involved in their deaths too?
"Time to find out who you really are," she muttered, pulling out her phone and typing in a quick search for any articles or interviews mentioning Sage Walker and this other mysterious person.
Almost immediately, an article from a local magazine caught her eye. It featured an in-depth interview with Sage, discussing her rise to fame as a popular psychic medium. As she skimmed through the paragraphs, a name leaped off the screen—Constance Gerring. The article described her as Sage's loyal assistant, someone who helped manage appointments and took notes during readings.
"Constance Gerring...C.G.," Sheila whispered, connecting the dots. "She's been right there all along, listening to Sage's messages of doom—and giving their clients a swift end to their fears."
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
Constance Gerring shuffled her worn deck of tarot cards, the faded images on each card barely discernible from years of use. She laid them out slowly and deliberately in a Celtic cross spread on the dashboard of her blue hatchback, trying to receive guidance on what she should do next. Her fingers traced the outlines of each card as she studied them intently, focusing on their meanings and how they connected to one another.
The High Priestess caught her attention with its air of mystery and hidden knowledge. Constance's eyes narrowed as she pondered its significance in her present situation. The Wheel of Fortune followed, symbolizing the unpredictability of life and the ever-changing circumstances that could either bring fortune or misfortune. She enjoyed the process of deciphering the messages within the cards, feeling a sense of power in her ability to interpret these cryptic symbols.
Her car was parked in a lot adjacent to a modest hotel, its beige brick exterior exuding an atmosphere of subdued elegance. A small sign bearing the name "Riverside Hotel" hung above the glass entrance doors. The area around the hotel was mostly quiet, with a few pedestrians strolling along the nearby sidewalks and some light traffic passing by.
As Constance's eyes lingered on the High Priestess, a memory rose to the surface of her mind. She recalled her first encounter with tarot cards—she had been just fifteen, wandering through a flea market when a deck caught her attention. The intricate designs and mystique of the cards had drawn her in immediately, igniting a curiosity that would set her on the path to becoming a psychic and palm reader.
Over the years, she'd honed her skills, learning the art of divination from various mentors and books. The journey had been filled with wonder as she discovered not only the power within herself but also the world beyond the veil that most people never saw. It had been a life-changing experience, one that led her to cross paths with Sage Walker, her current employer.
"Death," she murmured under her breath as she flipped over another card. The skeletal figure on horseback sent a shiver down her spine, making her think of Sage and how they had met. It had been at a psychic fair where Sage had been offering free readings. Constance had been struck by the older woman's piercing gaze and somber predictions for those who sat before her. Sage spoke of doom and gloom without hesitation, her voice unwavering as she revealed the harsh truths others tried to avoid.
"Your future is uncertain, young lady," Sage had told Constance during their first encounter. "But I see potential in you. Darkness and light intertwined. You could be a powerful force if you learn to harness your abilities."
Constance had been drawn to Sage's confidence and knowledge, believing her to be a true master of the psychic arts. Over time, under Sage's tutelage, Constance had become a skilled reader herself. But what truly intrigued her about Sage was her ability to look unflinchingly into the abyss, to confront the darkness head-on, and come out stronger for it.
