Page 6 of Silent Grave (Sheila Stone #12)

Sheila's heart was heavy as she parked behind the Search and Rescue vehicles. She suspected Tyler was dead, but what she wasn't sure about was why or how he'd died.

Had it been an accident? Or might there be foul play involved?

"Is that Gabriel Stone?" one of the Search and Rescue workers called out as they exited the vehicle. "Never thought I'd see you back out here, Sheriff."

"Just Gabriel now, Mike," her father replied with a wan smile. "Been retired a while."

"Once a sheriff, always a sheriff," Mike said. "Especially in this county." He turned to Sheila. "You're lucky to have him along. If anyone can get to the bottom of this, it's your father."

Sheila smiled politely, but inwardly, she was thinking about the Internal Affairs investigation. Her father hadn't exactly gotten to the bottom of that one, had he? Still, this was different. She had no doubt he would do everything he could to help figure out what had happened to Tyler Matthews.

As Mike drifted away, Sheila turned her attention to a rusted metal structure nearby that jutted from the mountainside like a broken bone.

"Old ventilation shaft," Gabriel murmured.

Dave Kendrick met them at the perimeter tape, his weathered face lighting up at the sight of Gabriel. "Well, look who they dragged out of retirement. Good to have you here—we could use your experience."

Dave turned to Sheila. "About thirty yards past the shaft," he said, gesturing toward a cluster of people. "One of our teams spotted him while checking possible escape routes."

Sheila nodded, already pulling on gloves.

Her father fell into step beside her, and she found herself unconsciously matching his measured pace—the same deliberate approach to a crime scene he'd taught her years ago.

Don't rush in. Take in everything. The scene will tell you its story if you're patient enough to listen.

Tyler Matthews lay face-down in the dirt, his clothes torn and filthy. Even from a distance, Sheila could see the dark stains of dried blood matted in his hair. His right arm was stretched out as if reaching for something, curled fingers grasping a handful of dust.

"Shit," Gabriel muttered. He crouched beside the body, careful not to disturb any evidence. "How long has he been out here?"

"Based on his condition, not long," Kendrick said. "Maybe six, eight hours max."

Sheila circled the body slowly, cataloging details.

Tyler's jeans were caked with a mixture of mud and what looked like mine tailings—the crushed rock waste left over from copper extraction.

Deep scrapes marked his forearms, visible through tears in his jacket.

His shoes were scuffed raw, the soles worn as if he'd been walking for miles in the dark.

"He was in the mines," she said quietly. "For at least part of the time he was missing."

Her father nodded. "The question was why. His mother told us he was claustrophobic, so what would cause him to go in there? Was he moving toward something or away from something?"

The county coroner's van pulled up just then. Dr. Jin Zihao emerged, medical bag in hand. He'd been Coldwater's coroner for over a decade, and Sheila had worked with him enough to trust his judgment implicitly.

"Careful around the head," Sheila called out as he approached. Something about the way Tyler was lying didn't sit right with her. "I want to document everything before we move him."

She took photos from multiple angles while Dr. Zihao began his preliminary examination. Her father stepped back, giving them room to work, but she could feel him watching—not just the body, but her. Evaluating her process, maybe. Or just worried about how she was handling it.

"Ready to roll him?" Dr. Zihao asked after several minutes.

Sheila nodded, tucking her camera away. Together, they carefully turned the body over.

The cause of death was immediately apparent. The left side of Tyler's head was crushed, the injury pattern suggesting multiple blows from something heavy and blunt. Blood streaked his face and neck in dried rivulets.

"A hammer, maybe," Dr. Zihao mused. "Or a rock. Something with heft but not too large."

"Mining tool?" Gabriel suggested from behind them.

"Possible." The coroner pointed to several distinct marks around the primary injury. "See these parallel impressions? Whatever it was had a consistent shape."

Sheila studied Tyler's face. Despite the violence done to him, his expression was oddly peaceful. His eyes were closed, mouth slightly parted as if in sleep. No signs of defensive wounds on his hands or arms.

"He didn't fight back," she said. "Why wouldn't he fight back?"

Her father moved closer. "Maybe he knew his attacker. Or the first blow incapacitated him."

"It could also be that he was just too exhausted to resist," Dr. Zihao added. "Look at his condition—dehydrated, hypothermic, probably hadn't eaten in over a day. If he really was in those mines all this time..."

Sheila stood, needing a moment to process. She gestured to the forensics team to start setting up tarps.

"It doesn't make sense," she said, more to herself than the others. "He disappears from one mine entrance, somehow makes it through God knows how many tunnels to emerge here, and then someone just happens to be waiting with a weapon?"

"Not a coincidence," her father said firmly. "Someone knew he'd come out here."

"But how? These tunnels are like a maze. Was someone following him, waiting for him to get out?"

Gabriel was quiet for a moment, considering. When he spoke, his voice was careful—the tone he used when he thought she might not like what he had to say. "Maybe they lured him in, like a cat playing with a mouse. Then, when he finally got out of the mines, the fun was over. Time to kill the mouse."

Sheila looked back at Tyler's body, at the peaceful expression that now seemed more sinister. Had someone lured him into the darkness, allowed him to hope he might escape, only to kill him the moment he saw daylight?

"If you're right," she said slowly, "then this wasn't some random act of violence. Someone planned this. Watched him. Waited for the right moment."

"And knew the mine system well enough to navigate it in the dark," her father added.

Dr. Zihao cleared his throat. "I'll need to do a full autopsy, but preliminary time of death appears to be early this morning, between two and four AM.

" He pointed to Tyler's clothes. "The mine dust is ground into the fabric.

He was in there for a while, moving around.

But the blood spatter is all localized here. He died where he fell."

Sheila imagined Tyler's final moments—emerging from the darkness, perhaps believing he was saved, only to face something much worse. He'd had so much ahead of him, so much to live for. And now those dreams had been crushed—not just for him, but for his family and friends as well.

Sheila thought of Tyler's mother, who would never get to embrace her son again.

Never get to hear him talk about college and future plans, marriage and children and a career and all the exciting possibilities that had once been ahead of him.

The very thought of all that had been lost turned Sheila's stomach sour.

She crouched near his outstretched hand, brushing aside dirt to reveal a faint outline in the earth. A symbol drawn just beneath his fingers.

"What is this?" she murmured.

Her father stepped closer, frowning. "A cross, by the look of it."

"Did he draw it in his final moments?"

Gabriel studied her carefully. "You're forgetting something."

She waited for him to explain, but he didn't. He was testing her, letting her figure it out on her own.

"Angela," she said, frowning as she recalled their conversation with Tyler's mother. "She said Tyler was agnostic."

Gabriel nodded. "So either, in his last moments, he reverted back to an earlier belief—"

"Or his killer drew the cross," Sheila said. "And judging by the dirt on the tip of Tyler's finger… the killer made Tyler draw it."