Piper pulled the coat closet door open, wincing at the soft sound that it made.Inside hung an array of coats and jackets, with hats up on a high shelf above them.
The scarf, the voices insisted.On the left.The one with patterns.
She saw that a low shelf on the left side held several folded scarves.She reached for one, but the voices grew agitated.
Not that one.Behind.
Piper reached deeper into the darkened recess of the coat closet.On the far end of that shelf she brushed against something soft, tucked away as if forgotten.She pulled it out—a handknit scarf in variegated yarns of blue and purple.
“This one?”she asked.
The voices hummed in agreement, a sound like distant bees.Put it on.Now.
As she wound the scarf around her neck, an image crystallized—a woman with kind eyes, working wool into patterns.Then the image was gone and the voices still urged, “Go.Quiet now.”
She paused at the front door, doubt flooding her once more.Was she really going to do this?Follow disembodied voices into the night on the promise of saving someone unnamed from an unspecified threat?What if this was just another manifestation of her condition?Dr.White had warned about acting on impulses without grounding herself first.
No time, the voices whispered, more insistent now.Trust.Follow.Save.
Piper took a deep breath, the scarf soft against her skin.She unlocked the door, stepping out into the crisp September night.The moon hung low and swollen above the tree line.The voices surged around her, a current pulling her forward, away from the safety of home and into the silent streets of Trentville.
“Which way?”she asked.
Left at the corner.Toward the old part of town.The voices spoke as one now, directing with growing urgency.Hurry.Death has chosen the next color.
Piper broke into a jog, the night air sharp in her lungs.The scarf fluttered behind her as she turned left at the corner.Somewhere ahead, if the voices were to be believed, someone’s life hung in the balance.And somehow, she was the only one who could tip those scales toward survival.
*
Brenda Drummond tapped her keyboard with the precision of a court stenographer, each keystroke a small assertion of authority.The glow of her computer screen cast pale light on her face as she leaned closer, scrutinizing the latest thread on TownCircle.
Three in the morning, and here she sat, the self-appointed guardian of Trentville’s digital community, unable to surrender to sleep while there were still comments to moderate, still opinions to correct.The recent murders had transformed the usually placid message board into a hotbed of speculation and fear—exactly the kind of chaos Brenda felt duty-bound to control.
“Ridiculous,” she muttered, deleting yet another comment that violated her strict standards.People became so irrational during crises.First Derek Sullivan—a town drunk whose absence was hardly a tragedy—and then Amanda Hartford, whose bitter downfall had been entirely self-inflicted.Now the town was in an uproar, as if the end of these two troubled souls represented some grave threat to the community at large.
Brenda adjusted her wire-rimmed glasses and rolled her shoulders, attempting to ease the stiffness that came from hours hunched over her keyboard.The small office—once a sunroom before she’d transformed it with her desk and filing cabinets—had grown cold.Goosebumps rose along her arms, but she ignored them, too engrossed in her digital crusade to bother with something as trivial as physical comfort.
She had already composed and posted three separate messages that night, each one a masterclass in veiled condescension disguised as community concern.The first reminded Trentville residents to remain vigilant but not paranoid.The second outlined proper security protocols for homes and businesses.The third, her favorite, subtly criticized Sheriff Graves for what Brenda perceived as ineffective leadership during this crisis.
Sleep had become an increasingly elusive luxury over the past few years.Brenda’s nights had stretched into endless cycles of rumination and righteous indignation.The insomnia had only worsened with each passing year, but she had transformed it into a badge of honor—while others slept, she stood guard, monitoring the digital pulse of Trentville through TownCircle.
Her eyes drifted to the phone sitting beside her computer.Perhaps she should call Elena.They had an arrangement, after all—a civilized agreement between two insomniacs who lived right next door to one another.If either found themselves unable to sleep, they were to call the other, who would offer chamomile tea and conversation.It was the sort of mature friendship Brenda prided herself on maintaining, so different from the petty alliances she observed among younger generations.
Elena Bowers understood her in a way few others did.As the director of the community center, Elena shared Brenda’s commitment to maintaining standards, to elevating Trentville above the mediocrity that threatened smaller towns.
It was late, even by their standards.But Elena had called her at two-thirty just last week, distressed over some vandalism at the community center.Brenda had welcomed her then, had listened to her concerns while steeping the perfect cup of chamomile.Surely Elena would extend the same courtesy now.
Before she could make the decision, her phone trilled to life, vibrating against the wooden desk.Brenda started, then smiled at the name illuminated on the screen.As if summoned by her thoughts, Elena was calling her.
“Elena,” she answered, unable to keep the pleasure from her voice.“You’re awake at this ungodly hour too.”
“I can’t sleep, Brenda.Too much on my mind with everything happening in town.”
“I was just thinking about calling you myself,” Brenda confessed, settling back in her chair.“I’ve been on TownCircle for hours, trying to maintain some semblance of order.People are working themselves into a frenzy over these murders.”
“It is disturbing,” Elena agreed.“Especially the colored yarn.Such a strange detail.”
“It’s like something from a bad crime novel,” Brenda sniffed.“I’m sure there’s a perfectly logical explanation.Some disturbed individual with a simplistic moral code, looking to punish what they perceive as sins.”
