Page 18 of Silent Grave (Sheila Stone #12)

Sheila glanced at her father, who was hunched over another stack of reports.

She thought about their conversation with Ray, which had only underscored how little she knew about her father.

Sometimes, despite all the time they'd spent together over the years—not least of all in the kickboxing ring—he seemed like a stranger to her, a Cold War secret agent who lived two lives.

She didn't believe for a second that he could have been complicit in her mother's death.

He had loved Mom too much for that. But when it came to money laundering…

was it possible that the reason he hadn't pursued the case while working in I.A.

was because he benefited from it? That he was getting paid to turn a blind eye?

She wanted to believe that Gabriel Stone, pillar of the Coldwater community, would never sully his conscience that way. But still, she wondered.

"Whatever it is," Gabriel said without looking up, "you might as well get it off your chest."

Sheila, caught by surprise, considered feigning ignorance but decided instead to be straight with him. Hopefully, he'd be straight with her in turn.

"When you came across that case in I.A.," she said, "were you really going to do anything about it? If Mom hadn't gotten involved… would you really have tried to put a stop to it?"

Gabriel's hands stilled on the papers. He looked up, and the pain in his eyes made her want to take back the question. But she couldn't. She needed to know.

"What are you suggesting?" he asked.

"I'm not suggesting anything."

Gabriel leaned back and tapped one finger on the desk, frowning. "I don't know how to win your trust back, Sheila. I really don't."

"Level with me. Why didn't you act on the information you had?"

"Because it wasn't enough. If you're going to expose a money laundering ring—one that's buried within a sheriff's department, no less—you've got to make sure you have all your facts right."

"And that's what you were doing? Getting your facts right?"

Gabriel nodded. "Carefully. Methodically. Whatever was going on, it wasn't limited to the department. The money trail implicated judges, prosecutors, prominent business people. I knew if I was going to expose it, I'd need an airtight case."

"But you never filed any reports. Never brought it to anyone's attention."

"Because I knew what would happen if I did." He pushed back from the table, running a hand through his silver hair. "Look what happened when your mother just asked questions about it. They killed her, Sheila. Killed her in our own home."

The familiar ache bloomed in Sheila's chest at the mention of her mother's murder. "So which was it? Were you trying to build an airtight case, or were you afraid of retaliation?"

"Both. I was afraid for Mom, for you, for Natalie, for all of us."

Sheila studied his face, trying to read the truth there. "I want to believe you. I really do."

She regretted the words as soon as she saw her father wince, but there was no taking them back now. And perhaps it was best to be honest—not just with what she was thinking, but with how she was really feeling, too.

Gabriel pushed his chair back and stood, beginning to pace despite his bad knee. "You think I didn't want justice—especially after what happened to your mother? That I didn't lie awake at night thinking about what they'd gotten away with?"

"I think," Sheila said carefully, "that you've spent a lot of years justifying decisions you made out of fear. Telling yourself you were protecting us, when maybe you were just protecting yourself."

Her father stopped pacing, leaning heavily on a filing cabinet. The late sunlight caught the silver in his hair, and for a moment he looked older than she'd ever seen him.

"The night before your mother died," he said quietly, "she confronted me about the files. Asked me why I hadn't done anything. I told her I was working on it, building a case. She didn't believe me."

"So she decided to report it herself," Sheila said. It wasn't a question.

"She said someone had to stand up to them. That evil thrives when good people do nothing." His voice caught. "I begged her to wait, to let me handle it my way. We argued…" He swallowed hard. "It was our last conversation."

Sheila felt cold despite the stuffy room. She'd always imagined her father as a paragon of virtue, a hero. But was he? Her mind told her that, no matter how much time he'd had, he never would've acted to stop the money laundering.

But then again, if he had tried to expose the corruption, would he even be alive today? Or would he, too, have been taken out?

"Just tell me this," she said carefully. "When you transferred out of Internal Affairs, when you became sheriff, started a new life... was it about protecting us from the people who killed Mom? Or was it about running away from what you'd failed to do?"

Gabriel looked stricken. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. "I… I don't know. That's the most honest answer I can give you. Maybe it was both."

Sheila stood, needing to move, to process this.

"All these years you've been telling me about justice, about doing what's right no matter the cost. But when it really mattered, when you had the chance to expose real corruption…

it feels like you were just taking the easy way out.

" She felt tears gathering in her eyes. She hated this conversation, hated how she was feeling and how she was making her father feel, but they had to air this out. It was the only way forward.

"There was nothing easy about it." His voice was earnest, desperate. "You think I don't know I failed? That I don't wake up every night wondering what would've happened if I'd done the right thing? That I don't wish it had been me who was killed instead of your mother?"

"And now?" Sheila asked. "Are you here helping me because you want justice? Or because you're trying to make up for your failure?"

The question hung in the air between them, heavy with decades of unspoken truths.

Gabriel stared at his hands, and for a moment Sheila thought he wouldn't answer. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, sorrowful.

"When your mother died, something in me... broke. I convinced myself that staying quiet, keeping you kids safe, was the right thing to do. The only thing to do."

"And now?"

"Now I see what a coward I was." He gestured at the files spread across the table.

"All these families destroyed by corruption—the mining accidents that weren't really accidents, the investigations buried, the lives ruined.

It's the same kind of thing. And I can't help wondering where we'd be if I'd just listened to your mother.

What's the point of safety if it means living a lie? "

Sheila sank back into her chair, studying her father's face. She wanted to believe him, wanted to trust that he'd changed. But doubt nagged at her.

"How do I know you won't do it again?" she asked. "When things get difficult, when the pressure builds—how do I know you won't choose the easy path?"

"Because this time I have nothing left to lose." He met her eyes steadily. "My wife is dead. Natalie's dead. You barely trust me, and for good reason. All I have left is the chance to make this right, no matter what it costs me. I owe your mother that much."

Sheila watched him return to his research, noting how his shoulders sagged under the weight of his confession. Part of her wanted to comfort him, to say she understood. But another part—the part that had spent years idolizing him, believing in his principles—felt betrayed all over again.

"I need some air," Sheila said abruptly, standing. She couldn't look at her father, couldn't process any more revelations about his past right now. Without waiting for his response, she walked out of the records room, her footsteps echoing in the empty hallway.

She found herself in the building's small break room. The ancient couch against the wall had seen better days, its fabric worn smooth by decades of county employees seeking rest during long shifts. Sheila sank into it, the springs creaking beneath her.

Exhaustion crashed over her suddenly. She'd hardly slept the past few days, running instead on coffee and adrenaline. Now, with her world tilted sideways by her father's confession, the fatigue felt overwhelming.

I'll just rest my eyes for a minute, she thought, lying down on the couch. Just long enough to clear my head...

Suddenly, in her mind, she was back in her childhood home. Everything seemed larger, distorted, the way places look in memories. She walked down the hallway toward her father's study, drawn by the sound of voices arguing.

"Someone has to stop them," her mother's voice said. "If you won't do it, I will."

"It's not that simple," her father replied. "You don't understand what these people are capable of."

Sheila reached for the doorknob, but it was too high, as if she were a child again. She stretched, straining to reach it.

The scene shifted. Now she was in the kitchen. Her mother stood at the sink, washing dishes. But the water running from the tap was red, staining her hands crimson.

"Mom?" Sheila tried to say, but no sound came out.

Henrietta turned, but her face was in shadow despite the bright kitchen lights. "Your father chose silence," she said. "Will you make the same choice?"

The kitchen darkened. Sheila heard footsteps behind her, heavy boots on linoleum. A green glow reflected off the windows—night vision goggles. She tried to warn her mother, but she still couldn't speak.

The scene changed again. She was in the mines now, running through endless tunnels. Her flashlight beam caught glimpses of crosses carved into the rock walls, hundreds of them, each one bleeding dark liquid that ran down the stone.

Her mother's voice reverberated through the tunnels. "You have to choose: Silence or truth. Safety or justice."

Something was chasing her. She could hear it getting closer. She rounded a corner and found herself face to face with her father. But he was younger, wearing his Internal Affairs badge.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice breaking. "I thought I could protect you."

Behind him, a figure in night vision goggles raised something metallic. Sheila tried to scream a warning, but—

"Sheila." A hand touched her shoulder, and she jerked awake to find Finn standing over her, his face tight with concern.

"What time is it?" she asked, struggling to shake off the nightmare's lingering unease.

"Just past seven. We've got a situation at the mines." He helped her sit up, his hand lingering supportively on her back. "The environmental protesters called in MSHA."

"Mine Safety and Health Administration?" Sheila ran a hand over her face, trying to focus. "Why?"

"Sarah Riggs apparently has connections there. She convinced them the deaths create a public safety emergency." Finn's expression was grim. "They're shutting down all access to the mine system. No exceptions—not even for law enforcement."

Sheila stood quickly, ignoring the head rush from sleeping in an awkward position. "They can't do that. We're in the middle of a murder investigation."

"They can, and they are. Two MSHA inspectors are already on site, posting closure notices. They're talking about sealing the main entrances until a full safety assessment can be completed."

"Which could take weeks." Sheila grabbed her jacket. "Where's my father?"

"Already headed up there. He's the one who called me, asked me to keep an eye on you. He didn't want to wake you." Finn followed her out of the break room.

Sheila stopped abruptly, turning to face him. "Wait a minute. Aren't you supposed to be resting? Doctor's orders."

"I can help in a limited capacity." Finn gestured at his side where he'd been shot. "No heavy lifting, no chasing suspects through mine tunnels. But I can drive you places, help coordinate search teams, that kind of thing."

She studied his face, noting the stubborn set of his jaw.

Part of her wanted to order him to go home and rest—his wound was still healing, and the last thing she needed was him reinjuring himself.

But another part of her was grateful for his presence, his steady support, especially with everything happening with her father.

"Fine," she said finally. "But you stay on the sidelines. No heroics."

"Me? Heroics?" He gave her a small smile. "Never."

"I mean it, Finn. The second anything feels wrong with that wound—"

"I'll tell you and go straight home," he finished. "Promise."

She nodded, knowing it was the best she could hope for.

"How bad are the protests?" she asked as they continued walking.

"Getting worse. News crews are up there now. Riggs is giving interviews about corporate negligence and public endangerment." They reached the parking lot, and Finn pulled out his keys. "I'll drive. You're still half asleep."

She wanted to argue but knew he was right. As they pulled out of the lot, she thought about their killer, hidden somewhere in that maze of tunnels. If MSHA sealed the mines, they'd lose any chance of tracking him through the tunnel system.

Which meant he'd won. At least for now.

Unless they could find another way to stop him before he killed again.