Page 11 of Silent Home (Sheila Stone #13)

"Not exactly. She just wanted to act. Really act, not just bit parts in local theater." He rubbed his face. "I promised to help her, to mentor her. And I did try. But she became increasingly unstable, demanding."

"The late-night meetings?"

"She would show up unannounced, wanting to rehearse scenes, discuss projects that didn't exist. I tried to let her down gently, but..."

"But?"

"Two weeks ago, she threatened to post everything online. The messages, the photos. Said she'd tell everyone how I'd used her." He paused, halting his momentum.

"And what did you do?" Sheila asked.

"My client's not going to answer that," Morton said.

"He will if he really cared about her. If he really wants justice for her."

"I paid her fifty thousand dollars," Greenwald said in a quiet, defeated voice. He looked suddenly older in the harsh makeup lights.

Morton interjected, "Which we can document with bank records." She knew how to pivot quickly.

"And yes, I did really care about her," Greenwald continued. "More than you can imagine."

"Did it work?" Sheila asked. "The money?"

"For a while. Then, last week, she said she had something bigger." Greenwald's hands twisted in his lap. "She was becoming erratic, paranoid. Said she'd found proof of corruption in the industry, that powerful people were involved. None of it made sense."

"Where were you last night?" Finn asked. "Between eight and ten PM?"

"At the Mountain View Hotel," Greenwald said quickly. "In a production meeting for tonight's premiere. At least twenty people can verify that. We ordered dinner in, worked until after midnight."

"Can you provide names?"

Morton pulled out her phone. "I'll email you a complete list of attendees, along with the hotel's security footage showing my client never left the building."

Sheila studied Greenwald's face. The fear there seemed genuine, but it wasn't fear of being caught—it was fear of what else might come out.

"What aren't you telling us?" she asked quietly.

"Nothing relevant to her death," he said. "I swear, I never wished Jessica harm. Yes, I behaved unethically. Yes, I used her feelings for my own benefit. I'm not proud of any of it. But I didn't kill her. I really did care about her."

Sheila exchanged a meaningful look with Finn. A successful director like Greenwald would certainly have the resources to arrange a murder-for-hire.

"You cared about her," Sheila said carefully, "but she was threatening your marriage, your career. That's a powerful motive to get rid of her—or have someone else do it for you."

"You think I hired someone?" Greenwald's face twisted in disbelief. "To garrotte her with stage equipment and pose her like a scene from my own film? Why would I want to draw attention to our connection?"

"Maybe you didn't specify the method," Finn said. "Maybe your hired killer had his own… artistic vision."

Greenwald started to respond, but Morton held up her hand. "Before my client says anything else, I want to be clear—we can document his movements and communications leading up to Jessica's death. His phone records, credit card statements, bank transactions—all of it is available to you."

"Those can be worked around," Sheila said. "Burner phones, cash withdrawals."

"Check them anyway," Greenwald said, his voice cracking.

"Check everything. Because what you're suggesting—that I would orchestrate Jessica's murder, turn her death into some twisted homage to my own film.

.." He shuddered. "The truth is bad enough.

I used her, I betrayed her trust, I paid her off to protect myself.

But kill her? Create this grotesque spectacle? No. Never."

Sheila studied him. The revulsion in his voice seemed genuine. More tellingly, his fear had a different quality now—not the nervous tension of someone hiding murderous secrets, but the desperate anxiety of a man watching his career implode.

"The fifty thousand dollars you paid her," Finn said. "How was it transferred?"

"Cashier's check," Morton answered. "We have the documentation. It was deposited directly into Jessica's account two weeks ago."

"And since then?"

"No unusual withdrawals," Greenwald said.

"No other payments. You can verify everything.

" He leaned forward. "Look, I know how this looks.

Rich, powerful man being blackmailed by young actress who ends up dead.

But I'm telling you—if I'd wanted to silence Jessica, I would have just kept paying her.

It would have been cheaper, cleaner, safer than.

.. than this horror show someone's created. "

"Honestly, Sheriff," Morton said, "if my client hired someone to murder this woman, don't you think he would make sure it was done in a way that wouldn't lead you directly to him?"

The logic tracked. Besides, a man of Greenwald's means could have simply bought Jessica's silence indefinitely. Murder—especially murder staged as elaborate performance art—brought exactly the kind of attention a blackmail target would want to avoid.

"We'll need those records," Sheila said. "All of them."

Morton nodded. "I'll have everything sent over within the hour. And Sheriff?" She glanced at Greenwald. "My client is willing to make a full statement about his relationship with Jessica. Every detail, no matter how damaging to his reputation. Because whatever else he's done, he didn't kill her."

"The board meeting tomorrow," Finn said, redirecting the conversation. "What was Jessica planning to reveal?"

"I don't know. After I paid her off, she said she'd found something else—documents, recordings, I'm not sure what. But it wasn't about me anymore." Greenwald's voice dropped. "She said she'd stumbled onto something bigger. Something dangerous."

"Like what?"

"She wouldn't tell me. Said she needed to be sure first." He met Sheila's eyes. "The last time I saw her, she was scared. Really scared. Not like before, when she was just trying to pressure me. This was different."

"When was this?"

"Three days ago. She came to my hotel room, completely hysterical. I thought she was having some kind of breakdown."

"What did she say?"

Greenwald gestured vaguely. "It was all nonsensical. She wasn't clear, wouldn't tell me what it was really about."

"What happened next?" Finn asked.

"I called her a cab, told her to go home and get some rest." His voice cracked slightly. "That was the last time I saw her alive."

Sheila exchanged looks with Finn. Greenwald was hiding something—but maybe not what they'd initially suspected.

"The cab company," Finn said. "Do you remember which one?"

"Peak Valley Taxi. I have the receipt in my hotel room."

"We'll need that," Sheila said, standing. "And Mr. Greenwald? Don't leave town."

He managed a weak smile. "I have a premiere tonight. And after that... well, let's just say I don't think the festival will be inviting me back."

Outside the green room, Finn pulled out his phone to call the taxi company. But Sheila's mind was already racing ahead. If Jessica had found evidence of something bigger than Greenwald's indiscretions, something that truly frightened her...

What exactly had she discovered? And who might have killed her to keep it hidden?