Page 19 of 4th Silence (Schock Sisters Mystery #4)

I press my fingers against the cool glass of the window, watching someone pass by on the sidewalk, now clear of reporters.

Across the street, a few are still hanging out in vans, waiting for me to pop my head back out.

Cars pass, and people go about their normal lives.

Most have no idea of the chaos unfolding in mine.

“I appreciate that, Garrett. More than you know.”

“What’s our next move?” he asks.

Our. The simple word reminds me that I’m not fighting this battle alone. Garrett and JJ are cut from the same cloth—honor, loyalty, fearlessness. Different styles. Same backbone. Both willing to help me. “We keep digging, but I have to be smarter about how I do it.”

“You always did take challenges head-on.”

Not subtle . It was a comment he put on one of my performance reviews. “And I’ve never been great at ignoring a dare.”

“You know who leaked this false accusation to the media, don’t you?”

I don’t tend to make statements I can’t back up with evidence. At least not to people like him. He always wants the facts, just like JJ. But hell, what’s the worst that can happen at this point? “Tiffany’s killer, Mary Hartman.”

He gives a low whistle. “You have proof?”

“That she did this or that she’s the killer? Neither, but I’m going to get it.”

“I’m here if you need me.” The sincerity in his voice is unmistakable. “Just say the word. But get this wrapped up. Fast. Please.”

A flicker of doubt tries to take root. I snuff it out. After thanking him again, I end the call and gather a few tools of the trade and slip them into my coat pockets. A voice recorder. Pepper spray. A pen that’s not just a pen.

Time to blow up a few things. “Mom,” I call, walking briskly to the conference room.

My mother’s head appears over her computer monitor, reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. “Are you okay?”

The question takes me off guard. Sometimes, she’s still my mother, rather than an investigative journalist. Matt and Meg are at the table with her. They both seem to wait on the edge of a dime for my reply.

“Absolutely.” I point at Mom. “I want everything you can find on Mary. Not the public profile stuff. I want financial records, connections to local businesses, and her ties to media outlets, especially those where she makes donations or has even the slightest whiff of financial interest. Anything she touches. I want to know where her fingerprints end, and someone else’s begin.

Matt, I want to know who she socializes with at the D.C. Police Department.”

Mom’s eyebrows shoot up, but she’s already reaching for her notepad. “Give me a few hours,” she says, waving me off. “I’ll find what Mary doesn’t want found. And I’ll sharpen my teeth doing it.”

My mother, the shark.

Matt’s fingers fly over his keyboard. “On it, boss.”

“Come on, Meg.” I wave her to follow me. “We’re going to grab lunch for everyone.”

Meg frowns, her expression quizzical until she catches the nearly imperceptible jerk of my head. I know she gets it when the confusion in her eyes fades to clarity. “Right. Lunch. I’m starving.”

“I could use a steak burrito from Juan’s,” Matt says without tearing his focus away from his screen. “If you’re in that neighborhood.”

Mom rolls her eyes. “Back in my day, we worked through lunch to get ahead of a story.”

I slip on my coat with deliberate casualness. “We need fuel to fight battles. Besides, I can’t think straight with my stomach growling.”

Her eyes narrow. Years of journalistic instinct raise her suspicions, but she only nods. She’s suspicious, but not enough to stop me. Yet. “Bring me back a sandwich—turkey on rye, no mayo.”

“Will do,” I say, already heading for the door.

Meg follows, matching my brisk pace. Neither of us speaks until we’re safely in my car.

“We’re not getting lunch, are we?” she asks.

A few reporters rush from their warm vehicles, waving microphones our way. I start the engine and honk for them to move as I pull out. “We might grab something on the way back. Right now, we’re paying a visit to the Hartman estate.”

“I knew it.” Meg claps. “Mom will kill us if she finds out.”

“Which is precisely why she doesn’t need to know.”

It takes a bit of finagling to get to the road, and we pick up several tails. Pesky reporters. “Seat belt,” I remind Meg.

She shifts and buckles up as I begin some offensive moves learned while at the Bureau. Left, right, U-turn. If I had gone to the dark side, I could have driven getaway cars.

Once I’m sure I’ve lost the reporters, I mentally run through my action plan.

Meg interrupts my thoughts. “Don’t you think Mary will refuse to see us?”

“I think she’ll want to gloat about the damage she’s caused.

” I check the GPS as it announces a traffic jam ahead and recalculates our route.

“If she does, I’m going to get her on record.

” I pat my coat pocket where a listening device is ready to record anything the woman says.

“Either way, showing up unannounced sends a message—I’m not backing down because of some tabloid shit piece. ”

“What did JJ say?”

“He offered his support.”

Her eyes widen. “Finally. Now I don’t have to kill him. And your old boss? Was he pissed?”

I change lanes. “He hid it well, but yes. He wants me to fix this, which means, solve the damn case and do it fast. But if I need his resources, I have them.”

She squeezes my shoulder. “I’m proud of you.”

I glance at her. “For what?”

“This type of attack hits you where you’re vulnerable.

You try to protect me, Matt, and everybody else, Mom and JJ included.

This time, you couldn’t. And your former boss?

Mr. Hastings? I know how much you respect and admire him.

To ruin his reputation and have him put before a firing squad because of you must be the worst kind of mortification. ”

If she only knew how true that is. “It’s Special Agent in Charge Hastings, and yes, it’s quite mortifying. But I can’t sit back and let someone else control my narrative. I have no choice but to confront Mary and show the public it’s all nonsense.”

We fall into silence until we turn onto the tree-lined road that leads to the wealthiest enclave in the county. This is where money lives. This is where it buries secrets in the backyards. The houses grow more expansive, set back from the road behind ornate gates and manicured landscapes.

“Do you think we’re crazy for doing this?” Meg asks.

“Probably.”

“Well, then,” Meg straightens in her seat as the GPS announces we’re approaching our destination. “Let’s go make Mom proud. Should I film it for TikTok?”

We both laugh.

The Hartman estate is a sprawling Georgian mansion with pristine white columns that stand out against the overcast sky. No reporters or Tiffany’s mourners are present. Mary’s been busy getting rid of them, no doubt.

“Subtle,” Meg mutters, fidgeting with buttons on her wool jacket. “Nothing says ‘we have nothing to hide’ like a house that belongs in a Southern Gothic novel. How are we going to get in?”

The wrought iron gates part with mechanical precision, though I haven’t announced our arrival into the security box.

Is someone expecting visitors?

Expecting us ?

Mary.

Meg and I exchange a look. The driveway curves around an ornate fountain where water cascades over stone cherubs with vacant eyes. Even the angels look like they’ve seen too much.

Flowing water in winter. Impressive.

I park near the front entrance, mentally rehearsing the carefully crafted questions I’ve prepared on the way here. “We’re here for a casual conversation. No accusations until it’s time for them. We need to be smarter than Mary.”

“We are smarter than that old bitch.”

A smile breaks over my face. “I don’t disagree.”

My heels click on the herringbone brick pathway as we approach the imposing mahogany front doors. Two matching evergreen wreaths blot out the center windows. A miniature tree and red sleigh with fake presents decorate the porch.

“The decorations alone probably cost more than my annual salary,” I whisper, noting the perfectly trimmed topiaries shaped like chess pieces flanking the entrance.

Pawns and queens, all lined up for Mary’s games.

Even in the midst of winter, they’re green and lush.

I wonder if they’re afraid Mary will yank them out by the roots if they show any weakness, like going dormant.

Meg nods. “I feel like I should’ve brought an offering.”

“I’d rather bring a warrant.” I press the doorbell. Seems redundant since whoever’s home knows we’re here. The resulting chime echoes deep within the mansion, a somber cathedral toll.

I expect a housekeeper or butler—someone paid to create distance between the Hartmans and unwanted guests. Instead, the door opens with unexpected swiftness, revealing a surprise.

“Charlie,” Alex says my name as if he’s happy to see me. His warm gaze shifts, and he spots Meg off to the side. “And Meg. What a pleasant surprise.”

My carefully prepared opening line dissolves. He’s barefoot in jeans and a Harvard sweatshirt—a casual appearance that contrasts with the formal setting and his typical appearance. His hair is slightly tousled, no hair products slicking it down today. He seems genuinely happy to see us.

“We were hoping to speak with your mother,” I manage.

His smile flattens as he leans against the doorframe, blocking my view of the interior. “She’s not here. It is the holidays. She has endless brunches, lunches, and fundraisers.” He tilts his head. “Is there something I can help you with?”

Meg glances my way.

This wasn’t the plan.

Abort , my instincts warn.

But my sister saves the day. “That’s what I wanted to talk to her about—having a fundraiser for some cold cases we’re working on.

I have five skulls I’m rebuilding, and we have no identities for them yet.

We’re out of funds to keep pursuing our investigations into them, and you know how underfunded law enforcement is these days.

Can we come in? Maybe run some ideas past you?

Like you said, it’s the holidays, a time for peace and forgiveness.

We’re waving the white flag. Finding justice for these victims will be a win for everyone.

Your mother can rave to the media how the Hartman Foundation was instrumental in helping. ”

To my horror, Alex only hesitates a moment before he steps back, that winning smile returning. “I love that idea. We could call it”—he motions with his hand, creating an air marquee—“Reconstructing Hope. Or maybe, the Faces of the Forgotten Fundraiser.”

Meg steps across the threshold.

When I don’t, she glances over her shoulder at me.

“What are you doing ?” I mouth.

My sister winks before she reaches for my arm and tugs me into the house.