Her mother followed her to the door, wrapping her in a tight hug before letting her go.Outside, the night air had taken on the sharp edge that preceded dawn, though sunrise was still hours away.Jenna climbed back into her car and sat for a moment.Her mind felt like an overtaxed engine, running too hot and too fast despite her exhaustion.Would she actually be able to sleep?Or would she lie awake, caught in an endless cycle of theories and fears?
*
The white yarn glowed under soft lamplight, pristine coils arranged on the coffee table like a sleeping serpent.The woman felt the texture—softer than the red had been, thicker than the green.Perfect for what was to come.A sense of rightness settled in her chest as she gazed at the yarn—the instrument of judgment that would soon fulfill its purpose.
Behind her, a bulletin board hung on the wall, its surface obscured by photographs, newspaper clippings, and neatly pinned notecards.The faces of her previous subjects stared back—Derek Sullivan with his perpetual sneer, Amanda Hartford with her hollow eyes and bitter smile.Red for rage.Green for envy.Their vices had been so obvious, so corrosive to the community she’d sworn to protect.
She glanced at her watch—nearly midnight.The house was quiet around her, empty except for her presence and purpose.In her mind, she replayed the executions, the way each had struggled briefly before succumbing.Derek, drunk and belligerent to the end, had been physically challenging but morally straightforward.Amanda, smaller and weaker, had barely resisted, as if some part of her had already accepted her fate.
Tonight’s subject would be even more deserving, but also different in certain other ways.She wound a length of the white yarn around her palm, then unwound it slowly, methodically, like a ritual.The previous kills had required careful planning—stalking Derek through darkened streets, picking Amanda’s lock in the nighttime silence.This time would be simpler.A phone call.A knock at the door.The subject would welcome her inside willingly, perhaps even gratefully.
The community would be better for it.Cleaner.More unified.Each removal was like excising a cancer, leaving healthy tissue behind to heal and strengthen.She was performing a service that others lacked the courage to provide.
From the kitchen, she retrieved scissors, cutting a length of the white yarn and testing its strength.Strong enough to hold, to create harmony from distress, to leave.She coiled it carefully, tucking it into a black canvas bag along with her gloves.
Everything was prepared.The alibi constructed, the method refined through previous experience.The subject’s routine was already well-known—predictable, rigid, a life built around passing judgment on others while remaining blind to their own flaws.
She moved to the window, pulling aside the curtain to gaze at the sleeping town.Trentville remained unaware of the service she performed, the sacrifices she made to restore balance.Sheriff Graves would never understand.Few would.This wasn’t about personal satisfaction; it was about necessity, about community.
Returning to the table, she gathered the remaining yarn, caressing its unblemished surface.Just a few hours would bring completion.The third color in her carefully constructed pattern.
She switched off the lamp and stood in darkness, rehearsing the words she would speak in the final moment, when understanding would dawn in her subject’s eyes just before the light in them was extinguished forever.
“White is for self-righteousness.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The voices came to Piper in the dead hours, tugging her from dreams into the quiet of her childhood bedroom.Her eyes snapped open.Not again.Not now.
Danger, they whispered, a discordant chorus that existed somewhere between her ears and the shadows in the corners of the room.Someone will die tonight.
Piper pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes.The medication Dr.White had prescribed was supposed to help with this—to dull the sharp edges of these intrusions, to give her some control over when and how the voices reached her.But they had broken through anyway, as insistent as ever.
“Leave me alone,” she whispered, afraid of waking her mother down the hall.“Please, just let me sleep.”
No time, the voices insisted, growing louder, more distinct.No longer a jumble of sound but clearer now, as if they were leaning closer.You have to stop it.Only you can.
She realized that these weren’t the same as the frightening, disorienting voices that had driven her from home at sixteen.These weren’t the terrifying hallucinations that had convinced her she was a danger to her family.These were clearer, more focused.Like the ones that had spoken about Derek Sullivan’s red yarn and again about Amanda Hartford wrapped in green.
“Who?”Piper sat up, the blankets pooling around her waist.“Who’s in danger?Tell me who needs to be saved.”
The voices swirled around her, scattered and uncontainable.Cannot say the name.But we can show you where.
“That’s not good enough,” Piper hissed, frustration tightening her throat.“I need more than that.I need to know who I’m supposed to save and from what.”
No time.Get dressed.Hurry.
Piper hesitated, torn between the urge to wake her mother, to call Jenna, and the growing certainty that the voices were right—there was no time.If she delayed, if she ignored them, someone would die.
The voices were urgent.Dress.Go.Now.
Piper switched on the bedside lamp and slid from beneath the covers.The bedside clock read 2:17 a.m.She pulled on jeans and a sweater, her movements quick and mechanical.All the while, the voices continued their restless swirl around her, prodding her to move faster, to hurry before it was too late.
As she stepped into her sneakers, a new direction came—sharp, commanding.Go to the closet near the front door.You must take the scarf with you.
“What?Why?”Piper asked, though she was already moving out of her bedroom and toward the stairs.The house was silent around her.
Quietly, the voices told her as she made her way down the stairs.Quickly, open the closet.
