Page 112 of Shhh…It’s A Killer Story

"He’s going to carry them anyway," Mason said softly.

The room fell silent again. Not the comfortable kind. The kind that sits between men who know the truth but don't have enough evidence to prove it. The gym was almost completely dark now, save for the single yellow bulb hanging over the workbench. The heavy bag had finally stopped swinging, hanging perfectly still in the center of the room like something waiting.

I leaned back against the padded wall, my shirt clinging cold to my ribs, my lungs burning pleasantly from the workout. I closed my eyes. The darkness behind them didn't stay empty for long. It became the valley. The logging roads. The old quarry. The abandoned cabins. The creek crossings. Every place we'd searched. Every place we'd come up empty.

Ten women. No bodies. No usable forensic evidence. No tire impressions that survived the rain. No witnesses. No mistakes.

Just...Fucking…Gone.

As if the mountain had swallowed them whole while the rest of Blackridge bought groceries, complained about the weather, and remembered to lock their front doors.

"Where the hell are you?"

I whispered into the empty basement. My voice came out rough, scraped raw. The stone walls swallowed it without giving anything back. And for the first time since Walker had slammed that file shut...my mind didn't picture the killer. It pictured ten women still waiting for someone to find them.

Seraphina

The wooden bowl rested against my hip as I stirred, the old beechwood warm from years of hands doing exactly this.

Scrape.

Scrape.

Scrape.

The spoon dragged through butter and brown sugar until the crystals disappeared one by one, surrendering beneath the weight of the mixing. Baking has always been strange to me. You throw a collection of completely useless things into a bowl and somehow, they become comfort. Humans are a bit like that too. Flour. Eggs. Sugar. Trauma. Give it enough heat and everyone comes out differently.

The kitchen slowly filled with the smell of vanilla, melted butter and toasted walnuts. It smelled... safe.

I liked safe.

"You're committing a crime against baking,"

Gerald announced from the flour tin, peering into my mixing bowl as though he were conducting a homicide investigation.

"You scooped the flour directly from the bag."

I blinked.

"...Yes."

"You compacted it."

"I compacted it?"

"The density is now completely wrong."

Frank sighed dramatically from the windowsill, where he'd made himself comfortable beside the herb pots.

"Oh, not this again."

Gerald ignored him.

"You should've spooned it into the measuring cup and levelled it with a butter knife."

Frank looked at me.

"He's been watching baking shows again."