Page 1 of 4th Silence (Schock Sisters Mystery #4)
Charlie
T he ghosts of the dead haunt me night and day. They don’t take vacations or holidays.
As I pull into the icy parking lot behind Schock Investigations—the business I run with my sister, Meg—my phone dings with a message from my mother. Helen Schock doesn’t take vacations or holidays, either.
Snow falls thick and heavy on my windshield.
While the lot has been plowed by the service the building owner employs, the asphalt is disappearing under the phantom white flakes at such a speed that it’ll need another pass within the hour.
Meg’s battered minivan sits under at least two inches of the wet stuff, telling me she’s been here for hours.
She doesn’t sleep much, my sister. The ghosts haunt her, too.
My fingers are stiff from the cold as I tug off my gloves, shut off my Christmas playlist, and read the message. I made the news! A video is attached.
My mother is as obsessed with bringing closure to victims and their families as Meg and I. It’s probably where we got our love for the hunt. Maybe ‘love’ is the wrong term. This passion for our work is all-consuming.
The psychologist in me knows ‘passion’ isn’t accurate either, at least not for my mother and sister. They are obsessed. Fixated. Addicted, even. Solving cold cases is a compulsion for them.
For me, it’s more about vengeance, plain and simple. Justice. If I let myself go down the emotional rabbit holes they do concerning the victims, I’d never get out of bed. To hold on to my sanity, I fixate on the killers instead. I profile them, find their triggers, and track them down.
My view of the back entrance to the building vanishes as the snow blankets the windshield.
My thumb hovers over the video. I should check on Meg first. Make coffee if she hasn’t already done so.
I’m doing what I can to cut costs, and buying my usual cup of wake-up-and-act-like-a-human-being latte on the way to work isn’t in the budget this month.
With Christmas comes bonuses and raises for our meager staff.
While I can afford the peppermint latte from the place down the street, every dollar I save takes pressure off me to keep the business afloat.
Helen Schock, however, is a handful. If I don’t respond in the next five-point-oh seconds, she’ll call. If I don’t answer that, she’ll show up here, D.C. snowstorm be damned.
Haley, our receptionist, texted earlier to tell me she’ll be late—her car is dead.
Matt Stephens, our part-time investigator, is stopping by her place to give her battery a jump.
Neither of them will be here to run interference if Mom shows up, and I’ll have to delay our required Monday morning meeting.
I’ve got to nip the Helen Schock apocalypse in the bud.
First, coffee. Driving , I text back. Will watch when I get to the office . I pray it’s enough to satisfy her for five minutes.
Inside, I flip on the lights, remove my coat, and shake wet droplets of melting snow from my hair. “Meg?” I call.
No answer.
We closed a case over the weekend, thanks to her diligence in reconstructing a skull, along with an unexpected lead I uncovered. One of her ‘girls in the basement’ now has a name—Galishea Tern.
JJ Carrington, the U.S. Attorney for the District of Columbia, is contacting Galishea’s family today. Her remains will be home for Christmas. Her family will find some closure, and JJ, the Emperor of Cold Cases, has a killer to nail.
That means Meg is onto another case. The next John or Jane Doe. The next girl in the basement. Although we close numerous missing persons and cold cases, her collection of lost souls continues to grow. As does her obsession with it.
When it comes to my family, being a psychologist and former FBI profiler sucks. I know what’s ‘clinically’ wrong with each and every one of us. And I can’t do a damn thing about it.
I wipe dirty sludge from my black leather boots and slip into the small kitchenette that doubles as our lunchroom. No surprise, my sister hasn’t made coffee. Yesterday’s leftover dregs, the same color as the sludge, have stained the inside of the pot. I go to work to clean it and start a fresh pot.
How long has she been here, obsessing over her reconstructed skulls that still have no identities?
While the coffee brews, I consider whether I’ll need to shovel the sidewalk.
Our landlord has the service plow the lot, but we’re responsible for clearing the walkways ourselves.
I glance at my three-inch-heeled boots, more of a fashion statement than a practical winter choice.
Matt can do it. A former police officer, Matt “Mad Dog” Stephens, has more muscles than The Rock and likes to show them off.
He’s also got a classic “save the damsel in distress” personality.
On a day like today, I’m not above putting both of those traits to good use.
I text him, but I get no reply. He’s probably driving or already at Haley’s, monkeying with her car. A second message from my mother comes in: I’m on my way.
What? Cursing, I hurriedly type back, Why ?
If you’d watch the clip I sent, you’d know.
Sighing, I tap the screen. The sound of “Silent Night” issues from my phone’s speaker, and a reporter from Channel 4 News stands in front of an iron gate surrounding a majestic, historic home from the early twentieth century.
“This is Denise Brown. I’m here in Wesley Heights tonight at the Hartman family home where eight-year-old Tiffany Ashley Rugers-Hartman was brutally murdered thirty years ago on Christmas Eve. ”
The Silent Night Murder. I lean against the cabinet and sigh again, rubbing my temple. One headache coming up. Of course, my investigative reporter mother would champion the revival of this old case.
The camera pans out to the three-story brick home behind the tall gates, conservatively decorated for the season, as a group bundled in coats and scarves sings the carol in soft voices.
A memorial has been created on the lawn with candles, teddy bears, and Christmas wreaths.
Folks have tied cards and handmade signs to the iron gates.
A school picture of the girl appears on the screen. Her smile shows a missing tooth. I swallow hard.
Denise Brown’s voice continues over the photo. “On this anniversary of Tiffany’s death, many in the community are asking law enforcement to reopen the case to expose the killer and finally find justice for the poor little girl.”
Next, she interviews my mother. Helen Schock, her natural silver-streaked hair tucked under a knit cap, stares down the camera with eyes that could cut glass.
As lead investigator for the Crime Desk of the D.C.
Investigative Journal—a tabloid that keeps the local cold case hunters stirred up—Mom’s breath frosts the air, and her eyes snap with determination.
Brown introduces her to the viewers, then asks about the Silent Night case and why she and the others are holding a vigil outside the family’s home.
“What happened to that little girl is unacceptable.” Her tone is no-nonsense.
I heard it routinely during my childhood.
Still do today. “She didn’t even get to wake up on Christmas morning with her family.
Can you imagine dying so young? Not just dying—she was killed!
On Christmas Eve, surrounded by family and friends.
” She blinks away tears. “I’ve learned that there is new DNA evidence and details about that party that law enforcement refuses to reexamine.
Someone who attended it knows what happened.
” She glares into the camera, pointing a finger at the viewers.
“Citizens Solving Cold Cases will solve this case once and for all.”
I cringe. JJ will be calling before I can finish my coffee, insisting I rein her in.
Mom started Citizens Solving Cold Cases a few years ago. It went defunct, but she’s revived it. She’s relentless about recruiting new members and utilizing them to delve into the thousands of unsolved cases in the D.C. area.
I wish her luck.
Stewing, I pour two cups of coffee and retrieve a couple protein bars from my bag.
This will take patience and damage control.
Patience with my mother, damage control with JJ.
Is Mom correct, though? Is there new DNA evidence?
Has the family asked to reopen the case based on it? Has JJ and his team refused?
At the door of Meg’s office, the video and questions take a back seat. My sister sits in the middle of the floor, files scattered around her, two of her sketchbooks open and filled with drawings and notes. “The answer is here,” she says without preamble. “I have to find it.”
Stepping past a stack, I hand her the coffee and one of the bars. “Who are you zeroed in on now?”
“Darcy.” She sets my offerings aside. “Her remains were found two miles from Galishea’s. The time of death places them within a few months of each other. Could be the same killer.”
“I’ll help you go through the files after the meeting.” I don’t have time to do it, but I’ll make it at some point today. I have the Costnick trial across town this afternoon. The defense has hired me as an expert witness for their client, and I’ll have to leave early to ensure I arrive promptly.
“What meeting?” Meg asks without looking up.
“It’s Monday.”
Her gaze meets mine, eyes glassy from lack of sleep. “So?”
“Our Monday morning meeting, Meg?”
The lightbulb goes off, and she releases a pent-up huff that blows a piece of her hair back from her forehead. “Sorry. I just got…”
The words trail off, as does her attention.
“Did you sleep at all last night?”
She takes a sip and shakes her head. “I can’t.”
“Why don’t you take some of those gummy bears Jerome has? Won’t they put you to sleep?”
Her boyfriend deals weed, but he has a legit medical card now, too. She snorts. “He’s the problem.”
My hackles rise automatically. If he’s done something to upset her… “How so?”
She presses her lips together. Her focus drifts to the chaotic piles on the floor, then to the bold collection of paintings on her walls. “He asked me to”—her hand shakes enough to spill the coffee, and she jumps up, dripping hot liquid onto her skirt and the sketchbooks—“do something ridiculous.”
I take the cup so she can grab a napkin and wipe the liquid off the files. My mind churns with various scenarios. “Ridiculous, how? Like, kinky ridiculous?”
“He didn’t so much ask me as just…hinted at it.”
“The suspense is killing me. Spit it out.”
She brushes past me, heading for the kitchen. The office landline out front begins to ring. As I follow, she says over her shoulder, “Should you get that?”
I ignore her attempt to distract me. “Meg.” Jeez, I sound like Mom.
She grabs a dish towel from the counter and wets a corner before dabbing at her skirt. “It’s nothing. Forget I said anything.”
The phone continues blaring at Haley’s desk. “Tell me before Mom gets here.”
She pauses in her ministrations. “Mom’s coming?”
“She’s revived the Silent Night murder case with her club.”
Meg processes this. “I saw her on the news last night. It’s good she’s bringing light to it again. We should help.”
I don’t disagree. I just can’t imagine how I’ll allocate resources to it. We run on a shoestring budget. There’s no payoff in this kind of investigation—the reward the family offered thirty years ago is no longer available. Unless they were to hire us to look into it, it’s a freebie.
I’m not heartless, but those don’t pay the bills. We won’t be able to help anyone if we go bankrupt.
Meg reads my mind. “You know we have to do this. Help Tiffany. If we solve the case, it will make the news. We’ll get more paying clients from it.”
The dead plague me. I haven’t been right since my first cold case at the Bureau. It’s still unsolved.
My sister’s pleading, bloodshot eyes weigh on me. I set both cups on the counter, anticipating ringing Jerome’s neck. “What did Jerome ask you to do?”
She starts to reply, but the back door flies open, and our mother rushes in like the blizzard raging outside, bringing a gust of snow and cold with her.
“I’m here!” She whips past the kitchen door with stacks of file boxes on a wheeled cart.
She sees us out of the corner of her eye and backpedals, blustering into the kitchen and filling it with her energy.
Her face is flushed. The ringing phone stops and starts again.
“I’ve gone viral on TikTok.” Pride laces her voice.
“I used your number for people to call with any information on the case.” She dumps a box into my arms, pushes her hood back, and removes her gloves, grinning like it’s the best day ever.
“Pour me some coffee, Meg.” Her gaze tracks to me. “We’ve got a lot of work to do.”