Silent Night Shadows. Sarah Varland

He hadn’t been sure what to expect from a small-town crime scene investigator, but she was good at this.

      He appreciated being allowed to stay, even if they were keeping what they found quiet, not showing him much. Ideally he’d find out more tomorrow. For now he kept his hands in his pockets and tried not to get in the way at all while he thought about the horrible turn this day had taken. Jenni’s death was tragic, but the fact that she was killed on the same night Claire Phillips was attacked couldn’t possibly be a coincidence—and it might mean he was closer to a breakthrough on this case than he had realized. Interested parties had most likely noticed his presence in Treasure Point, and it was making someone very nervous. Maybe this meant he was close to seeing the fruits of almost eighteen months focusing on the same case with hardly any break.

      Tomorrow he’d go to Claire Phillips’s coffee shop. First he’d make sure she was okay after the attack. She’d seemed like it, but his mind kept replaying how pale her face was, how wide her eyes were.

      And then he’d try to figure out what the connection was between the attack against Claire and Jenni’s death. Because he wasn’t letting another woman die on his watch.

       THREE

      It wasn’t too late when Matt dropped her off, so Claire locked the door behind herself as she’d promised to and fixed herself some dinner. If someone had asked, she wouldn’t have said she was hungry, but apparently the experience earlier that evening hadn’t robbed her of her appetite. It had done the opposite—she ate like she hadn’t eaten all day.

      After eating dinner, Claire cleaned up. Not just her kitchen, but the entire apartment. She fielded two more calls from Gemma since their phone conversation in the car, but Claire kept those talks pretty short. She just told her sister to listen to Matt, who had agreed with the chief that the attack was likely random.

      At ten o’clock, Claire still believed that the police officers were right, that she was safe now. But she wasn’t having any success convincing herself to become tired. Every time she so much as looked toward the bedroom, she knew there was no way sleep was coming, not anytime soon. So Claire did what she always did when some aspect of her life overwhelmed her and needed sorting out somehow.

      She pulled out her box of painting supplies, dug through until she came up with the watercolors. This was her preferred medium, especially when reality felt a little too harsh and needed the edges blurred slightly, the best light put on it. Tonight was a watercolor night if she’d ever seen one.

      On a sheet of watercolor paper, she started to paint from a photo she’d taken of the marsh earlier in the week. As she did, she thought about what had happened tonight.

      She’d been attacked. She let her mind wrap itself around that as she worked on blending just the right shade for the salt water in the marsh creek she was painting in the corner of the paper. She’d been attacked, but she didn’t know why. Someone had rescued her, but while he looked familiar, she didn’t know who he was. Not long after her attack, another woman in Treasure Point had been killed.

      Claire was starting to question her decision to spend the night alone in her apartment. She knew Gemma or Matt would come get her if she asked, but was it really necessary? Murder in town or not, her random attacker wouldn’t follow up, wouldn’t track her down to her home.

      Right?

      Too many questions. And Claire didn’t have the answers, something that didn’t sit well with her. She always had the answers. She focused on her painting again, creek complete, and moved on to the delicate strokes that would make the marsh grass itself.

      Claire glanced at the clock once or twice as she worked. Ten thirty. Then just past midnight. Her mind still wasn’t tired. It was still racing with curiosities and possibilities.

      She shivered, unable to shake the feeling of unease that had persisted since the attack. She set the brush down. Almost unconsciously she rubbed her left shoulder, the first place the man had grabbed. When she realized what she was doing, she jerked her hand away, like acknowledging the bruise somehow made what had happened more real. Instead of dwelling on it, she examined her painting—almost finished—to judge her progress so far.

      It looked like the scene she’d seen and photographed, but the early morning sun had been warm in that picture, comforting and full of the promise of what the day would bring.

      She’d stayed true to the water and the grass in that picture. The scene itself was exactly the same. But a change in the mood had come across through shadows, a bit of a feeling of discord in the particular shade of yellow-gold she’d chosen for the light. It wasn’t the first time she’d done that, projected emotions she was feeling onto a painting, but it was certainly telling of how troubled she truly was by her attack. She kept painting anyway—it was beautiful even if it wasn’t the picture she’d intended to paint. And it was helping her calm down—the subtle shaking of her hands that hadn’t stopped since everything had happened was finally starting to ease.

      Forty minutes after midnight, she set the brush down, painting complete. The idea of starting another crossed her mind, since usually she painted until everything in her mind was resolved, but she knew better than to expect to clear her mind fully after everything that had happened tonight. For now she did feel better, at least a little, and she needed to go to sleep, since she had to be downstairs at five o’clock to start the cinnamon rolls. Claire knew that bakeries in bigger cities opened so early that proprietors had to start baking at four or even three in the morning. But Treasure Point didn’t get going until about seven most days. And even that was early for all but some fisherman and a few professionals whose jobs started early.

      Claire put her paints away in order, the way she liked them, then stood and stretched. She looked around the nearly dark room and wished she’d turned a few more lights on. She had one small light on in the kitchen, her lamp on her painting table, and then the string of Christmas lights outside. The rest was darkness.

      She usually turned off everything but the Christmas lights when she went to bed. Tonight she was leaving all of it on. She walked around the apartment, checking corners and closets even as she laughed at herself for her paranoia. If someone had been out to get her and hiding in her apartment, he’d have made his move to attack her when she was immersed in her painting.

      Once she’d confirmed that she was the only one in the apartment and all the doors and windows were locked, Claire went to bed. God, keep me safe, she prayed as she started to drift.

      Her eyes snapped open. Claire glanced at the clock. Just after two. It felt like she’d just fallen asleep, but apparently she’d gotten a couple of hours’ worth.

      She swallowed hard and looked around. Her room was dark, but the main living area still gave off a bit of light, enough for her to glance around and confirm that everything was undisturbed. She didn’t know what had awakened her, but clearly there was nothing to worry about.

      Claire settled back on her pillow, took a deep breath.

      And with no warning, no flicker like a regular power outage often gave, the apartment went dark. And the stillness suddenly felt...not as empty as it had seconds before.

      Like she wasn’t alone.

      The shadows in the darkness changed ever so slightly. Claire blinked. And then, in the slivers of moonlight that came through the cracks in the curtains in her bedroom window, she saw a shape.

      Someone was in her bedroom.

      * * *

      Always go with your first instinct. It was one of the rules Nate tried to live by. But Nate had broken that rule when he’d pushed away the urge to visit Kite Tails and Coffee and check on Claire when he’d left Jenni’s apartment. He’d wanted to make sure she was settled in safely for the night, but he’d felt drained after the long evening and had decided that checking in on her could wait until morning. He glanced at the red numbers of the hotel alarm clock. It was 2:00 a.m.

      Closer