Page 15 of Silent Home (Sheila Stone #13)

Sheila watched the festival transform as night deepened.

Gone were the families clutching popcorn bags and the tourists with their festival programs. By ten PM, a different crowd had claimed Main Street—film students with expensive cameras slung around their necks, producers huddled in doorways making deals, directors holding court at café tables.

The bars glowed with warm light, their windows fogged from intense conversations within.

Outside the Antler Room, a group of documentary filmmakers debated the ethics of reenactments, their breath visible in the cold air as they gestured passionately.

She knew this was when the real business of the festival happened—after dark when the casual moviegoers had gone home, and only the true believers remained. These were the people who lived and breathed cinema, who saw the world through an imaginary lens.

And somewhere among them, she suspected, walked a killer who had turned murder into performance art.

"Jessica kept to herself mostly," said Annie Martin, a production assistant from "The Winter Palace.

" They'd found her nursing a beer at the Peak Mountain Brewery, where festival staff tended to gather after shifts.

"But the last few weeks, she started asking questions.

About the production, about financing, about who had access to what. "

"What kind of access?" Sheila asked.

Annie shrugged. "Digital files, dailies, raw footage. Weird stuff for an actor to care about." She took a sip of her beer. "I figured she was just trying to learn the business side."

The brewery's back patio was heated by portable propane units, creating islands of warmth in the October night. Every table was occupied by festival attendees, their lanyards catching the light as they gestured enthusiastically about the minutiae of filming.

"Greenwald's premiere is starting," Finn murmured, checking his phone.

Sheila glanced toward the Coldwater Theater, where a line had formed outside Theater One. Bradley Greenwald's "Echoes of Silence" was one of the festival's marquee events, and even their earlier confrontation hadn't dampened enthusiasm. If anything, the rumors of drama had increased interest.

Annie finished her beer in a large swallow and hastily rose. "Thanks for the reminder—I don't want to miss it." She took two steps, then turned back and said, "Hope you figure out what happened to Jessica." With that, she waved and hurried off.

"Guess the conversation's over," Sheila said with a sigh.

Thus far they'd spoken with a gaffer who remembered Jessica asking about access to the editing bay, a makeup artist who'd overheard her arguing with someone on the phone, and a location scout who thought he'd seen her taking photos of documents when she thought no one was watching.

But nobody who could provide specifics about what Jessica had been looking into.

And nobody who had any idea why Jessica had been murdered.

"Come on," Finn said, rising. "Let's walk around. The movement helps me think."

Sheila rose and followed Finn out.

"She definitely found something," Finn said as they walked past the Mountain View Hotel. The lobby was visible through plate glass windows, full of people discussing the premiere they'd just attended. "But what was she looking for in the first place?"

A food truck was doing late-night business, serving coffee and pastries to the festival crowd. The smell of espresso cut through the cold air. Sheila bought a cup, needing the caffeine to help her think.

"Everyone says she changed in the last few weeks," she said. "Started asking technical questions, looking into the business side. Why?"

"Maybe she stumbled onto something by accident," Finn suggested. "Something in those late-night editing sessions with Greenwald."

They passed the Owl Street Coffee House, now closed but still hosting a small crowd of festival staff in their back room. Through the window, Sheila spotted Mara Winters, Jessica's former friend, deep in conversation with other actors.

"Should we talk to her again?" Finn asked.

Sheila shook her head. "Let her be for now. She's already told us what she knows."

The night deepened, but the festival showed no signs of slowing. They found a quiet spot outside the Antler Room, away from the crowds. Sheila leaned against a brick wall, letting the cold seep into her shoulders as she tried to organize her thoughts.

"Something's bothering me," she said. "If someone wanted to silence Jessica, why make it so theatrical? Why not make it look like an accident, or a robbery gone wrong?"

"The staging was deliberate," Finn agreed. "Personal, even. Like they needed her death to mean something."

"Or like they were proving a point." Sheila watched her breath cloud in the cold air. "Jessica was investigating something specific. She didn't just stumble onto it—she was looking for it. But why? What made her start digging in the first place?"

Finn shook his head silently. Sheila rested her head on Finn's shoulder, and together they watched festival-goers walk by.

"Ever wonder what it's like?" Finn asked softly. "Acting, I mean. Becoming someone else for a while."

Sheila considered this. "I suppose it's not that different from fighting, actually. When I was competing, stepping into the ring... you become a different version of yourself. More focused, more present."

"But fighting was real."

"Acting is real too, in its own way." She shifted closer to him, grateful for his warmth in the cold night. "You have to believe in what you're doing and commit to it completely. Like Jessica did."

"You sound like you've thought about it."

"Maybe a little." She smiled against his shoulder. "Star's been trying to get me to do a scene with her for her drama class. Says I'd make a good Lady Macbeth."

Finn chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest. "I can see that, actually. You've got that whole 'determined woman with a complex moral code' thing going on."

"Is that your way of calling me scary?"

"Terrifying," he said, pressing a kiss to her hair. "In the best possible way."

Their quiet moment was interrupted by Sheila's phone buzzing. A text from dispatch: 911 call from the Mountain View Hotel. Possible homicide.

"We have to get to the hotel," she said as she pushed off from the wall.

"Why? What is it?"

"Possible homicide," she said grimly. "I think our killer may have just struck again."

***

The Mountain View Hotel's service corridor was already crowded with emergency personnel when Sheila and Finn arrived. Red and blue lights from police vehicles outside strobed through the windows, creating an eerie light show against the industrial carpet and bare walls.

Dr. Jin looked up from where he knelt beside the body. "Same killer," he said without preamble. "Gaffer's wire, similar bruising pattern. And this victim, too, was repositioned after death."

Thomas Rivera sat propped against the wall near the emergency exit, his hotel uniform pristine except for the ligature marks on his neck.

Unlike Jessica Gregory, he hadn't been dressed in any special costume—just his regular work clothes, though they'd been meticulously straightened after death.

His hands were folded in his lap, his head tilted as if listening to something.

Most disturbing was his expression—peaceful, almost serene, like an actor waiting for his cue.

Sheila's heart sank. She'd been right to want to shut down the festival. If they had, this might not have happened. But because she'd allowed Rider to have his way, because she hadn't exercised her powers to do what she believed was right, there was blood on her hands.

She took a moment to calm herself. Easy, she thought. Berating yourselves won't do anyone any good. You have to keep your head in the game.

She circled the body slowly, taking in every detail. The killer had positioned Rivera with the same careful precision used with Jessica, but something was different. "The first victim was dressed specially for the scene," she said. "This time he used what the victim was already wearing."

"Maybe he didn't have time to change the clothes," Finn suggested, crouching to study the ligature marks.

"Or maybe the uniform was part of the scene he wanted to create," Sheila said. She noted how the victim's shirt had been tucked in neatly, his name tag perfectly straight. "Everything's so... precise."

She turned to Jin. "Time of death?"

"Between nine and nine-thirty PM," Jin said. "Body temperature and lividity suggest he was killed here, then positioned about an hour later."

He pointed to some scuff marks on the carpet. "Signs of a struggle, but brief. The killer likely took him by surprise."

Deputy Neville approached with a preliminary report. She had to step carefully around the crime scene technicians who were photographing every angle of the scene, their flash units creating stark shadows with each burst of light.

"Victim is Thomas Rivera, thirty-four, night clerk. Been working here three years. The front desk got an alert when this emergency exit was breached around nine PM. They radioed Rivera to check it out since he was already on this floor."

"Security cameras?" Finn asked, standing and moving to examine the emergency exit.

"Nothing useful. This is a blind spot—cameras cover the main corridors but not this service area. The killer must have known that."

Sheila joined Finn at the door. The lock had been jimmied professionally—someone who knew what they were doing. She ran her fingers over the mechanism, feeling the damage. "This wasn't forced in a hurry," she said. "They took their time, did it right."

She turned back to the scene, where Jin was supervising the placement of evidence markers. "What do we know about Rivera?"

"Divorced, lived alone," Neville said, consulting her notes. "Used to do community theater but quit a few years ago. Coworkers say he was reliable, kept to himself mostly."

Something clicked in Sheila's mind. "Community theater—when did he quit?"

"After his divorce, according to his supervisor. About three years ago."

Jin stood, removing his gloves. "The bruising pattern is nearly identical to what we found on Jessica Gregory. Same killer, same technique. But this feels..."

"More practiced," Sheila finished. "Like Jessica was a dress rehearsal, and this is the real performance."

Crime scene technicians continued their methodical work, the click of their cameras punctuating the silence.

One of them called Jin over to examine something near the victim's feet, but it turned out to be just a scuff mark from the struggle.

The emergency exit door creaked slightly in the cold wind from outside.

Somewhere down the hall, a vending machine hummed.

"There's no denying it," Finn said quietly. "We've got a serial killer on our hands."

"A serial killer with an artistic vision," Sheila said. "And he's giving this town all it can handle. Come on, let's go talk to Rider. Maybe, just maybe, he can help us connect some dots—and put a stop to this for good."