The Sixth Kind Chapter 05

The Sixth Kind Chapter 05

March 5, 2026.

I found Detective Greer. Told him what Edmund had deduced.

He slapped his thigh so hard it echoed.

“Back then, we focused on a twenty-kilometer radius around the scene. We never once

thought about someone she knew.”

“Professor Stone’s two lines of inquiry–that’s a net. And whoever’s caught in that net is our

guy.”

“Don’t you worry, Grace. I’ll smoke this bastard out.”

Greer looked ten years younger, practically bouncing on his heels. Like he finally had a real

case again.

March 6. My sister’s case was officially reclassified as a criminal homicide.

Edmund joined the task force as a forensic expert.

The same day, I had Detective Greer pull a week’s worth of security footage from my

neighborhood. Fed Lily’s photo into an Al. Tracked her movements.

Wanted to see everyone she’d come in contact with.

Nothing unusual.

Until day four. An old, crappy camera outside a corner store. It caught a blurry figure. A familiar figure.

That day, I went back to the mine on Raven Ridge. Walked the scene again.

And when I saw those faded, smudged footprints–it hit me. Like a bucket of ice water.

If one of the three people who found my sister was the killer……

Then any footprints he left at the scene would just look like part of the rescue.

Or he could “accidentally” scuff them up.

Edmund had said the killer would be someone close to my sister.

But how close?

I had to find out myself.

Before I went, I talked to Edmund again.

I told him my theory about the footprints. What I’d seen on the surveillance footage.

He only said one thing:

“Grace–remember who you are. You’re a criminal psychologist. Don’t stare into the abyss

too long. And when it stares back–don’t let it swallow you.”

March 11, 7:25 AM. On my way to the state psychiatric hospital to see my father.

My phone rang. Detective Greer.

The background check on everyone connected to Raven Ridge that day had come back.

“Grace–due to the sensitive nature of this case, and concerns for your safety, the higher-ups and Professor Stone have agreed to keep you in the loop. Don’t want the killer getting the drop on you. The findings and suspect profiles are in your inbox……”

I read the email.

And I laughed.

Laughed till it hurt.

Between the surveillance footage from the past few days, my latest visit to the scene, and all

the little details from my family’s life over the years……

I’d stumbled onto a truth that flipped everything on its head. A truth that made my blood run

cold.

8:00 AM. I walked into a place I’d been a hundred times over five years.

After my mother died, my father started losing his mind. Every time he saw me, he wanted to

kill me.

I thought he hated me. Blamed me. Didn’t want to see me.

So I hired someone to take care of him.

Eventually he got so bad, I had no choice. I put him in a psych ward.

But every time he saw me, he still went ballistic.

To keep him from getting worked up, I’d go see him every couple of months–and just

watch from a distance. That’s all.

This was the first time I’d really looked into his “illness.”

Nobody knew–but my dad, the high school teacher, had always wanted to be a

psychiatrist.

He’d spent years studying the DSM. Taught himself clinical psych, neurophysiology,

behavioral psych.

Now he was a long-term resident of a psych ward. So I guess you could say he got what he

always wanted.

His attending physician, Vincent Cole, was one of his former students. The only one who’d

gone into psych.

Before my sister died, they were close. Mentor and protégé. Vincent was at our house all the

time.

He was also the only person who didn’t blame me after everything happened. The only one

who tried to comfort me.

I told Vincent why I was there. He handed me my father’s chart with a sigh.

“Grace–his condition is getting worse. You should prepare yourself.”

My stomach dropped. “What did he do now?”

“A few days ago, he sneaked out. Tortured a stray cat to death.”

“How do you know?” The surveillance footage was blurry. I held onto a tiny shred of hope.

“He recorded it. Sent me the video.” Vincent gave me his phone, his face twisted in a wry

smile.

In the video, Lily was wearing an electronic training collar. Eating kibble.

But every time she tried to swallow–my father hit a remote.

The collar tightened. The cat convulsed. Gagged. Choked.

“It’s a brutal behavioral psych technique–‘aversive conditioning.’ Positive punishment

mechanism.”

I stared at the screen. Every muscle in my body was tight.

“Every time the cat swallowed, the collar choked her…… He was training her to associate

eating with suffocation.”

He fast-forwarded. Later in the video, the collar was gone.

But every time Lily went near the bowl–every time she put food in her mouth-her PTSD

kicked in.

Her throat seized up. She couldn’t swallow. Could only hold the food in her mouth and shake.

I lasted two minutes. Then I ran to the bathroom and threw up.

It was him.

Why?

Why go after a stray cat I cared about?

I thought about the day they found my sister. My father-righteous fury blazing in his eyes.

Slapping me three times across the face.

I leaned over the sink and threw up again.

Nothing came out but bile.

Tears and snot ran down my face.

Ten years.

What did my sister ever do to deserve that?

And what did I ever do to deserve this?

My family destroyed. What did he gain from it?

I didn’t care anymore. I was going to get the truth if it killed me.