Page 24

My laptop screen turns on by itself.

A blank document opens. The cursor blinks. Waiting. Then letters begin appearing. One by one. Not typed. Written.

YOU SHOULD HAVE LEFT.

I freeze. Morrow whispers:

"That wasn't there before."

No. It wasn't. And…

I stop searching for the logical explanation. Because somewhere deep inside, I already know. Something found me. And it doesn't want me here.

4

RHETT

OCTOBER 20 ~ 11 DAYS UNTIL HALLOWEEN

By the time I cross the Welcome to Sleepy Hollow sign, the fog has started to burn off.

Morning sunlight filters through the brilliant canopy of maples, setting the entire town ablaze in shades of crimson, gold, and copper. Every storefront is dressed for Halloween. Black bunting hangs from second-story windows. Pumpkins crowd every doorstep. A twelve-foot skeleton waves from the lawn of the historical museum while tourists stop to take selfies beneath him.

To everyone else, Sleepy Hollow looks like the perfect autumn destination. To me, it looks like a crime scene that hasn't realized it's one yet.

I lower the volume on the truck's radio. Dispatch chatter fades into static.

Normally, I like the noise. Radios mean information. Information means control. Today, I need silence.

The closer I get to town, the stronger yesterday's uneasiness becomes. Not fear. I've felt fear. This isn't it.

It's anticipation. Like standing outside a burning building before the first flames become visible. You know something is wrong. You just haven't found it yet.

The police station appears two blocks off Main Street, tucked between the town hall and an old brick library. It looks more like a converted colonial house than a municipal building, complete with white shutters and a bell tower that probably hasn't rung in decades.

I park beside an unmarked SUV and kill the engine. The moment I step onto the pavement, my instincts sharpen. Not the wolf. Just me. Every investigator develops habits after enough years on the job.

Mine is observation.

The flag outside hangs limp despite weather reports calling for a steady breeze. Two officers stand on the front steps drinking coffee. Neither is talking.

Inside, the station is quieter than it should be. Phones ring. Keyboards clack. Someone laughs down the hall. Yet beneath the ordinary rhythm, tension hangs in the air.

People glance at one another a little too often. Conversations stop when supervisors walk by. Everyone looks tired.

The receptionist smiles politely.

"You must be Rhett Cambridge."

"I am."

She gestures toward a hallway.

"Detective Molly Harris is waiting for you."

I thank her and continue down the corridor. Photographs line one wall. Retired chiefs. Award ceremonies. Community events. The newest photo catches my attention.

Last year's Halloween parade. Thousands of smiling faces packed along Main Street. One empty space near the center where everyone else seems to unconsciously avoid standing.