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"Sure, just go to the 'recordings' folder on my phone," Finn said, keeping his focus on the winding road ahead.
Sheila navigated to the folder and pressed play on the first recording. Juliette's frightened voice filled the car, each word laced with a growing sense of panic. As Sheila listened intently, she could feel the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. There was something about Juliette's desperation that struck a chord deep within her, stoking the fierce determination that had always driven her forward.
"Eric is coming for me! I know it's him. He swore he'd kill me if I ever left him. I thought I had escaped, but he's found me."
Sheila clenched her jaw, moved by the woman's fear.
"Please, you have to help me," Juliette continued, her panic evident as her voice broke into sobs. "I can't sleep, I can't eat. Every time I close my eyes, I see him lurking in the shadows, just waiting for the right moment to strike. I don't know how much longer I can live like this."
"Did you guys do anything when she called?" Sheila asked, unable to shake the chill that raced down her spine. She could almost feel Juliette's terror gripping her own heart, threatening to overwhelm her entirely.
Finn sighed, his grip on the steering wheel tightening. "We did what we could. At first, we sent someone to keep an eye on her, see if her ex-husband was actually stalking her. But nothing happened, and eventually, we couldn't keep sending officers over without any concrete evidence."
"Must've felt like she was crying wolf," Sheila muttered. "Did you investigate the ex-husband, Eric?"
"Of course," Finn replied, his grip on the steering wheel tightening. "I know the recordings seem pretty damning, but I can assure you he's not involved."
"How's that?" she asked, her gaze fixed on Finn as he navigated the vehicle through the meandering roads of Utah.
"Eric is a long-distance truck driver. He's out on a run from Denver to San Francisco. GPS tracking on his rig confirmed that he was in Nevada at the time of the murder. He was also caught on gas station surveillance cameras multiple times during his route, so there's really no question he's innocent."
"Damn," Sheila muttered under her breath, feeling a growing frustration with the lack of progress in the case. She turned her attention back to the tarot cards displayed on Finn's phone, her mind racing with possibilities.
As she stared at the Hanged Man card, something about it made her uneasy. The figure dangled upside-down, suspended by one ankle, its free leg bent in an odd angle. The face of the man was eerily calm despite the distressing situation. The Death card was equally disturbing, featuring a skeletal figure mounted on a pale horse, surrounded by a desolate landscape.
"Whoever this killer is, they're sending us a message with these tarot cards," Sheila said, her voice low and serious. "But what does it mean?"
Finn glanced over at her, his brow furrowed in thought. "I don't know, but it's clear we're dealing with someone who's methodical and calculating."
"And confident, too," Sheila said. "The killer must realize that using a calling card makes it clear that the killings are connected. That's a gutsy thing to do."
Finn nodded, his eyes grim as he stared at the road. "And I'm no expert on tarot cards, but from what I'm told, there are quite a few of them. What if the killer's working through the whole list?"
CHAPTER FOUR
Constance stared at the bundle of clothes in the trash, her mouth suddenly dry. Blood stained a few of the garments, dark and sinister against the pastel fabric.
Her fingers trembled as she raised the knife, its handle sticky with blood. Carefully, she wrapped it in the shirt, but anxiety gnawed at her insides. What if the knife poked through and cut the bag? What if someone saw it?
"Get a grip, Constance," she muttered to herself, her voice barely above a whisper.
Her eyes darted around the room, searching for something to calm her racing thoughts. She had just returned from Juliette's place, and while she didn't regret what she had done, she couldn't help but worry about getting caught. As she stared at the bundle of bloody clothing, she wondered if there was a better way to dispose of it. The uncertainty clawed at her mind like a relentless beast, threatening to swallow her whole.
"Think, think, think," she murmured, trying to focus on the task at hand and not the growing dread in the pit of her stomach.
"Maybe I should burn them…" she mused, picturing the pile of clothes going up in flames. But no, that would attract too much attention. She needed something quick and efficient, something that wouldn't arouse suspicion.
"Damn it!" she cursed under her breath, frustration boiling over. Time was running out; she had to make a decision now.
"Alright," she said, taking a deep breath, "I'll just have to risk it."
She double-bagged the bundle, hoping it would be enough to prevent any mishaps. As she tied the knot, her hands shook with a mix of excitement and fear—the same emotions that had driven her to kill Juliette in the first place.
"Let's get rid of you," she muttered to the bag, taking one last glance around her home before embarking on her mission. With every step, she felt the weight of her actions, but also the exhilaration of evading capture. Her life was a high-stakes game, and she refused to be anyone's pawn.
With a determined nod, Constance gripped the trash bag tightly and made her way to the back door. Her heart raced with each step, the memory of Natasha's murder still fresh in her mind. She had nearly been caught then, but she was smarter now—more cautious, more skilled at covering her tracks.
"Get it together," she muttered to herself, trying to steady her breathing as she unlocked the door. The morning sun greeted her, casting long shadows across the narrow alley that bordered the row of buildings. Flickers of light danced over the brick facades, illuminating the occasional wisp of steam from nearby vents. The air was crisp, carrying with it the faint smell of coffee from the café down the street.
