Chapter two

The courthouse smelled of mildew and old wood, a mausoleum that dressed itself up in law. Assistant District Attorney Evelyn Cross strode across the marble floor with a briefcase in hand, heels echoing like gunshots. Her reflection glared back at her from the polished walls—sharp suit, sharper eyes, no margin for weakness.

She hated mornings in Blackthorn. The sky was always slate gray, the air always heavy, as though the city itself hadn’t taken a breath in years. But today felt heavier. Father Marcus Hale’s words from the interrogation still clung to her skin: “He knows you. He’s been waiting.”

Ridiculous. Parlor tricks. A manipulator’s game. And yet, when she’d closed her eyes last night, she’d dreamt of feathers—black, endless, falling like snow.

Her assistant, Claire, hurried to catch up, clutching a stack of files. “ADA Cross? Forensics sent over preliminary reports on the Blackthorn victims.” She lowered her voice. “And… the coroner flagged something unusual.”

Evelyn paused on the courthouse steps, hand tightening on the rail. “Unusual how?”

Claire glanced around, then slipped a folder from the stack. “All three victims had incisions too precise to be made by conventional blades. Tissue showed signs of cauterization at the cut edges. As if… burned open, but without fire damage to the surrounding flesh.”

Evelyn flipped through the photographs. Clean, perfect lines. Hearts removed as if plucked by invisible hands. A faint shiver traced her spine.

“Get me everything on Father Hale’s history,” she ordered briskly, snapping the folder shut. “His parish records, his sermons, his fall from the church. Somewhere in his past, we’ll find the trigger.”

Claire nodded, relieved to retreat into her comfort zone of research. Evelyn tucked the folder into her case and climbed the stairs. She wouldn’t be shaken by theatrics. Not now.

---

Detective Jonah Voss was already at the coroner’s office when Evelyn arrived later that afternoon. He leaned against the cold steel counter, a wolf among instruments of the dead. His tie was loose, his shirt wrinkled, but his eyes burned with the kind of sleepless intensity that made subordinates wary.

“Cross,” he greeted flatly. “I figured you’d show.”

“Because I care about building a case,” she replied, setting her briefcase down.

The coroner, Dr. Ingrid Zhao, rolled her chair over, snapping off her gloves. She was a petite woman with the detached calm of someone who spent more time with the dead than the living.

“You wanted anomalies,” Zhao said, sliding three reports across the counter. “You got them. The chest cavities were opened with surgical precision, but there’s no trace of steel. The burn patterns suggest extreme localized heat. Imagine a scalpel made of pure flame, cutting only where it touched.”

Jonah exhaled slowly. “Like fire from inside the body.”

Zhao gave him a sharp look. “Don’t romanticize it. I’m giving you science. But science doesn’t explain what tool could do this.”

Evelyn skimmed the report, jaw tight. “We’ll leave speculation out of court. The facts are damning enough. The man was at the scene, surrounded by evidence.”

Jonah smirked, but it wasn’t humor—it was weariness. “Facts? Or performance? He wanted us to find him there. Everything about it screams theater.”

Evelyn shot him a glare. “You’re too quick to hand him mystery. He’s a killer, not an oracle.”

“Then explain this.” Jonah pulled a photograph from his pocket and slapped it on the counter. It was from last night—Hale’s chalk circle on the floor, the jagged letters above it: THE DEVIL’S ALIBI.

Evelyn’s throat tightened despite herself. She forced her face blank. “A desperate man’s delusion.”

“Or a ledger,” Jonah countered.

Dr. Zhao raised an eyebrow. “Ledger?”

Jonah nodded grimly. “Every serial I’ve ever chased keeps records—trophies, journals, something. This isn’t scripture. It’s accounting. He’s keeping score.”

---

That evening, Evelyn returned to her office and buried herself in Hale’s history. His personnel file from the Archdiocese painted a neat portrait: ordination at twenty-six, rising star in his parish, sermons that drew packed pews. Then the descent—whispers of heresy, accusations of “dangerous teachings,” a public scandal when two parishioners claimed he’d performed exorcisms without church sanction.

He vanished from public record ten years ago. No known employment. No residence. Just… absence.

Buried deep in the archives, she found transcripts from one of his final sermons. Her eyes scanned the faded type:

> “When the Judge comes to question me, I will not lie. I will speak His truth. And if the world does not believe me, then the Devil himself shall stand as my witness.”

The words crawled under her skin. Hale hadn’t just invented this defense last night—he’d been rehearsing it for years.

She was still staring at the page when Claire reentered with a fresh file. “We found something else. A ledger. Belonged to a widow in Hale’s parish. She kept meticulous notes about his sermons, his confessions, even his visitors. Dated entries, going back fifteen years.”

Evelyn flipped through, scanning tight handwriting. Most entries were mundane—parish gossip, donations, choir schedules. Then her eyes froze on one line:

‘Father Hale says the Devil keeps an alibi for all who serve him. That’s how he hides in plain sight. He wears the faces of the guilty, but never the blood on his hands.’

Her breath caught. The ledger was a diary, yes—but it was also a blueprint. Hale had been planting these ideas long before the murders.

She closed the book, her reflection staring back from the office window: composed, determined, but with something hollow lurking in her eyes.

“He’s not crazy,” she murmured. “He’s deliberate.”

Claire frowned. “So… cult?”

“Or conspiracy.” Evelyn stood, grabbing her coat. “Either way, we’re missing half the picture.”

---

Meanwhile, Jonah’s night took him to the ruins of St. Brigid’s Church, where Hale had once preached. The city had condemned it after the fire, but its charred spire still clawed at the skyline.

The sanctuary was a skeleton—benches warped, stained glass shattered, the altar blackened. Yet someone had been here recently. Jonah’s flashlight caught fresh footprints in the soot.

At the altar lay another feather, pristine despite the ruin. Beside it, carved into the stone with something sharp, were three names: Emily Garner. Sarah Levens. Natalie Crowe.

The victims.

But below them, a fourth name had been freshly etched. Jonah’s pulse stuttered as he read it aloud.

“Evelyn Cross.”

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***