Page 25 of In Her Fears (Jenna Graves #8)

As Eric Edwards guided his car along the winding country road, the September full moon was low in the sky, just as it had been on that night when everything changed.

Moonlight spilled through the windshield, illuminating his face in harsh silver that deepened lines etched by seven years of secret guilt.

The sheriff’s words had shocked him when she said that Elias had requested to see him.

He'd gone to the house expecting resistance, prepared to manipulate his former friend with carefully crafted words.

Instead, Elias had surprised him with forgiveness.

At first, he'd felt a surge of hope for them both.

Then Elias had mentioned his plan to visit the clearing where the picnic had taken place, and Eric had understood.

This wasn't an ending; it was an opportunity. The final piece fell into place.

His mind drifted back to his conversation with Sheriff Graves and her deputy. They’d been focused on the paintings, on the connections between Elias’s disturbing art and the actual murders. But they were looking in the wrong direction.

Elias was just the apparent prophet whose tormented visions provided Eric with the blueprints for his own acts.

He’d staged two deaths exactly as Elias had painted them, meticulous in every detail.

It was what Lina wanted—he was certain of it.

Surely her spirit was guiding him, showing him the path to redemption.

The headlights illuminated a small dirt turnoff, nearly hidden between towering pines.

Eric slowed the car and pulled onto the rough track, just far enough to be hidden from the main road.

He killed the engine and sat for a moment in the sudden silence, before he got out to walk the rest of the way.

The picnic site was within walking distance of Elias’s tunnel, but it wasn’t accessible by car; that had been part of its charm, once upon a time.

The privacy that had made it perfect for three friends to share wine and laughter now made it ideal for what Eric needed to accomplish.

Seven years ago, almost to the hour, the evening had begun pleasantly enough.

They’d brought an expensive bottle of wine to celebrate Elias’s latest gallery showing.

Lina had prepared a picnic of crusty bread, soft cheese, and fresh fruit.

The moon had risen, full and golden, casting a glow across the little clearing.

Eric closed his eyes, letting the memory wash over him.

He could still taste the wine, still feel the warm summer air against his skin.

He could still see Lina’s smile, directed first at her husband, then, when Elias wasn’t looking, at him.

The secret glances that had sustained their affair for months.

But then Elias had grown quiet, his expression hardening as he watched his wife and his friend. Without warning, he’d erupted.

“How long has it been going on?” Elias had demanded. “How long have you two been betraying me?”

Lina had frozen, the wine glass halfway to her lips. Eric had felt a cold dread spreading through his chest.

“What are you talking about?” he’d asked.

“Don’t insult my intelligence,” Elias had snarled. “I’ve seen the way you look at each other. I found your messages on her phone.”

Lina had begun to cry then, silent tears that tracked down her cheeks and dripped onto the front of her summer dress. “Elias, please,” she’d whispered. “It’s not what you think.”

“Not what I think?” Elias had laughed, a harsh sound devoid of humor. “Are you going to tell me you haven’t been sleeping with my best friend for the past six months? That you haven’t been lying to my face every day?”

Eric had remained silent. Part of him had wanted to confess everything, to beg for forgiveness. But another part—the part that had loved Lina with a desperate intensity—had demanded that he stand his ground, declare that their love was real despite the circumstances of its birth.

Before he could speak, Lina had scrambled to her feet, wine sloshing from her glass onto the blanket. “I can’t do this,” she’d sobbed. “I can’t.” And then she’d fled, stumbling through the trees and back toward the house, leaving the two men alone in the clearing.

The silence that followed had been absolute. Elias had stared at Eric with a cold fury that made the blood freeze in his veins.

“She was everything to me,” Elias had said finally, his voice eerily calm. “And you took her.”

Eric had opened his mouth to respond, but Elias had already turned away, stalking into the darkness of the forest, away from the clearing, away from his house.

Now, sitting in his parked car seven years later, Eric grimaced at the memory.

He’d sat in that clearing for nearly an hour after both Elias and Lina had fled, drinking what remained of the wine and trying to decide what to do.

Finally, fueled by alcohol and a sense of righteous indignation, he’d made his decision.

If Lina truly loved him, as she’d claimed during their clandestine meetings, then this was the moment for her to prove it. He would go to her, demand that she leave Elias once and for all. They would start fresh somewhere else, away from the small-town gossip and judgment.

The secret tunnel had been his means of entering the Harrow house undetected for months.

A relic from the Underground Railroad days, it connected a hidden entrance in the woods to a concealed door in the house’s cellar.

Elias had shown it to him years ago, proud of his family’s history of aiding escaped slaves.

Eric had later used that tunnel to facilitate his affair with Lina, slipping into the house when Elias was away.

And Eric had snuck through that tunnel just a few days ago to see the painting that would inspire Alexis Downey’s death.

The night of the picnic, the tunnel had seemed darker than usual, the air thicker, as if the earth itself disapproved of his intentions. He’d navigated by touch and memory, emerging finally into the musty cellar. The studio had been unoccupied, the house above quiet, no sign of Elias.

He’d found Lina in the bedroom, curled on the edge of the bed. Her eyes had been red and swollen from crying, her movements sluggish. Empty pill bottles and a half-empty glass of wine had sat on the nightstand—she’d been self-medicating again, a habit that had worsened as their affair had deepened.

“Eric,” she’d said, her voice slurred. “You shouldn’t be here. He’ll be back soon.”

“Pack a bag,” he’d told her, standing in the doorway. “We’re leaving. Tonight.”

She’d looked at him with confusion clouding her glassy eyes. “Leaving?”

“Together,” he’d said. “This is our chance, Lina. He knows about us. There’s no reason to hide anymore.”

But instead of the joyful agreement he’d expected, Lina shook her head slowly. “No, Eric. I can’t leave him.”

“What are you saying? After everything we’ve shared? After all the promises?”

“It was a mistake,” she’d whispered, not meeting his eyes. “All of it. I love Elias. I’ve always loved Elias.”

“That’s the pills talking,” he’d insisted, moving closer. “The guilt. Once we’re away from here—”

“No.” Despite her intoxicated state, her voice had been firm. “It’s over, Eric. It should never have begun. Please leave.”

The rejection had hit him like a physical blow. For months, she’d whispered her love into his ear, had promised a future together once she found the courage to leave her marriage. And now, when that future was finally possible, she was choosing Elias?

“You don’t mean that,” he’d said, his voice hardening. “After everything he said tonight?”

“We betrayed him, Eric,” Lina had replied, tears flowing freely now. “We hurt him. I can’t compound that by leaving him.”

Something had snapped inside Eric then. All the love he'd felt for Lina curdled into rage. If she weren't his, if she were choosing Elias despite everything...

He’d spotted the letter opener on her dresser—a silver thing with an ornate handle, a gift from Elias on some forgotten anniversary. Without conscious thought, he’d grabbed it.

“If you won’t come with me,” he’d said, his voice strangely calm, “then you can’t stay with him either.”

The confusion in her eyes had shifted to fear as she’d registered the blade in his hand. “Eric, please—”

He’d moved quickly, before she could flee, holding her still while the letter opener sliced through the delicate skin of her wrists—first one, then the other. Her struggles had been weak, hampered by the pills and alcohol already in her system.

“Why?” she’d gasped, watching in horror as her lifeblood spilled onto the bedsheets.

Eric hadn’t answered. He’d simply watched as the light faded from her eyes, his rage giving way to a cold, clinical detachment.

When it was done, he’d carefully arranged the scene—wiping off his prints, placing the weapon in her limp hand, positioning her body so it would appear she’d taken her own life.

The pills and alcohol made it believable; her history of depression sealed the narrative.

He’d left the way he came, through the underground tunnel, erasing all traces of his presence from the house. By the time Elias returned from his night of aimless wandering in the forest, Lina was long dead, her body cold, the suicide scene convincingly staged.

For years, Eric had managed to bury the truth beneath layers of careful normality.

He’d expressed appropriate grief, had attended Lina’s funeral with a convincingly devastated expression.

He’d even attempted to reach out to Elias, playing the role of the concerned friend worried about Elias’s isolation and deteriorating mental health.

But inside, the guilt had eaten away at him like acid, hollowing him out until he was just a shell going through the motions of a normal life.

And then, a year after Lina’s death, Elias had begun painting those scenes—horrific images of violent death, all illuminated by the same full moon that had witnessed their final confrontation.

When Jay had brought the first of these paintings to the gallery, Eric had been shaken to his core. The raw anguish in every brushstroke, the disturbing beauty of the composition—it was as if Elias had somehow seen into the darkness of Eric’s soul.

And then, gradually, Eric had begun to hear a voice in his dreams. Whispering, accusing, demanding. He decided that it was Lina telling him to bring Elias's visions to life.

Martin Holbrook had been the first. A man with a passing resemblance to the figure in Elias’s painting. The stake through the heart, the pentagram carved into the tree—all details faithfully reproduced from Elias’s images.

Alexis Downey had been the second. The young waitress had reminded Eric of Lina—something in her smile, in the way she tilted her head when she listened.

And now, tonight, the final act.

Eric opened his eyes and reached into the glove compartment, extracting a hunting knife with a serrated edge. The blade caught the moonlight as he tested its sharpness against his thumb, drawing a thin line of blood.

Perfect.

He stepped out of the car and checked his watch one last time. The timing had to be exact—the same hour as their confrontation seven years ago, under the same full moon. He felt certain that was when Elias would also return to the picnic site where it had all begun.

He slipped the knife into his belt and began to walk, his footsteps nearly silent on the carpet of pine needles. Ahead, destiny waited in a moonlit clearing, where a checkered blanket had once held three friends, and where, he believed, blood would finally wash away his sins.