Page 30 of Silent Grave (Sheila Stone #12)

The cabin sat in a small clearing, its weathered logs almost black with age. Three outbuildings—a barn, a workshop, and what might have been a storage shed—formed a rough semicircle behind it. Trees pressed close, their shadows already lengthening in the late afternoon light.

"No vehicles," Finn said quietly as they crouched in the tree line. "But look at the ground between the buildings."

Sheila studied the packed earth. Despite the surrounding vegetation, the paths between structures were oddly clear—maintained, but made to look neglected. Someone routinely walked these routes.

They watched the property for a few moments, documenting any movement, any sign of life. Nothing. The whole place felt wrong, like a movie set designed to look abandoned.

"We go in soft," she said finally. "Could be motion sensors, security cameras. He has military training—"

"And resources," Finn added. "All that specialized equipment."

They approached the cabin in stages, using the trees for cover until they reached the edge of the clearing. The windows were grimy but intact, covered from the inside with what looked like heavy fabric. No smoke rose from the chimney despite the cold.

The front steps creaked under their weight. Sheila tested the door handle—unlocked. That raised red flags immediately. Either Whitman was confident no one would find this place, or he wanted them to enter.

She eased the door open, weapon ready. The interior was dark, the covered windows blocking most of the natural light. Their flashlight beams revealed a space that was both lived-in and carefully maintained.

No dust. No cobwebs. Everything is meticulously organized.

The main room held a sleeping bag on a narrow cot, a small table with a camp stove, and shelves lined with military-style supply crates.

One wall displayed topographical maps of the area, with certain locations marked in red.

Sheila recognized them—mine entrances, but not all were on the official surveys.

"Check this out," Finn whispered, gesturing to a desk beneath the maps. A laptop sat open, its screen dark. Beside it lay a logbook filled with precise handwriting—times, dates, locations. And names.

Sheila's stomach turned as she read the entries. Tyler Matthews. Marcus Reed. Diana Martinez. Each name followed by detailed observations, times of entry and exit from various mine locations. The most recent entry was for Michelle Waring.

"He's been tracking them," Finn said. "Learning their patterns."

"Not just tracking." Sheila pointed to another section of the logbook. "Look—he's timing their 'lessons.' How long they last in the darkness before breaking down. Their reactions to different scenarios he creates."

They moved deeper into the cabin. The kitchen area was sparse but functional—military rations, bottled water, everything arranged with obsessive precision. A generator hummed softly in one corner, powering what looked like communications equipment.

"Military-grade radio setup," Finn said, examining it. "He could monitor emergency frequencies, track search patterns."

In the bathroom, they found recently used towels hanging to dry. The medicine cabinet held basic supplies plus several prescription bottles. Sheila photographed the labels—medications for chronic pain, anti-anxiety drugs, sleeping pills. All in different names, probably stolen or bought illegally.

The bedroom revealed more of Whitman's obsession. Photos covered one wall—surveillance shots of various mine entrances, people exploring them, search and rescue operations. In the center hung an old silver cross, similar to the one from the video but clearly different. A second cross?

"Sheila." Finn's voice drew her to a corner where a clipboard lay on a small table. Michelle's petition was still attached.

There could be no doubt that Michelle had been here. The question was, what had happened to her? And where was she now?

A sound from outside made them both freeze—branches moving in the wind, or something else? They waited, listening. Nothing but the usual forest sounds.

"Where would he keep her?" Finn whispered. "No basement that I can see."

"The outbuildings." Sheila studied the photos on the wall again. Several showed the barn and workshop from different angles, but something was off about them. The perspective seemed wrong, as if—

Her phone buzzed, making them both jump. Gabriel.

"Dad?" she answered quietly. "Kind of in the middle of something."

"I talked to Hank," Gabriel said without preamble.

Sheila's throat tightened. She wanted badly to know what her father had to say—especially about whether or not Hank had been involved in her mother's murder—but as important as that was, this just wasn't the time.

"I know, Dad," she said quickly, "but Finn and I are at a suspect's house right now. I can't talk."

"Frank Whitmore's place?"

"No, we already searched—" She stopped, puzzled. She and Finn had discovered the killer's identity after her father left to speak with Hank, not before. "How'd you know about that?"

"That's not all I know," Gabriel continued. "Listen, while I was talking with Hank, we started getting into the investigation—the mines, the killings, all of it."

Sheila put the phone on speaker so Finn could hear. "Go on," she said to her father.

"When I shared everything we knew about the killer's profile," he continued, "it jogged Hank's memory. He was the lead investigator back when Frank Whitman disappeared."

"Okay," Sheila said slowly, not sure where this was going. Finn was frowning at the phone in concentration.

"According to Hank," Gabriel continued, "when Frank disappeared, they found some interesting writings in the midst of all the quasi-religious crap."

"What kind of writings?" Sheila asked.

"Blueprints. For some kind of reinforced trapdoor system."

"Like a bunker entrance?" Finn asked.

"More elaborate. Custom-built, with multiple failsafes. Frank was paranoid about security—he'd been a military engineer before becoming a miner." Another pause. "The blueprints showed connections to the mine system, but they never found the actual entrance."

"We searched Frank's property, too," Sheila said. "There was nothing there."

"That's just it," Gabriel said. "Hank always suspected the entrance wasn't on Frank's property, but somewhere else."

Sheila recalled what Finn had read about this cabin belonging to Theresa's family. It made sense that if they had an entrance to the mines on their property, Frank would be very interested in it.

She studied the photos on the wall again.

It occurred to her that the perspective wasn't wrong—the buildings were.

The workshop in the photos wasn't the same one standing outside.

At some point, someone had torn down the original and rebuilt it, keeping the weathered exterior to maintain the illusion of age.

Why would someone tear down the old workshop just to rebuild it in the same place?

"Dad," she said, "we've got to go."

"Be careful, Sheila, okay? I'll be there in twenty minutes. Just sit tight."

"Of course," Sheila said, not really meaning it. "See you then." She hung up the phone and found Finn watching her.

"Guess I'm the one lying now," she said.

Finn chuckled softly. "Your father ought to know you well enough to realize you're not just gonna sit on your hands, not when a woman's life is in danger." He frowned at the photos. "What was it you noticed? Something about the buildings?"

"The workshop—look out the window."

Finn did so.

"It's new," he murmured. "Newer than the one in the picture, anyway."

"Peter let these other outbuildings rot, but not that one. Why?"

Finn gave her a long look. "I think we'd better go find out."