Page 17 of Silent Home (Sheila Stone #13)

The Art House Cinema looked different at night, its neon sign casting a soft blue glow over empty sidewalks. A lone employee—barely old enough to drive, by the look of him—was happy to let them in after hours when Sheila showed her badge.

Now the ancient projector hummed overhead as "Ghost Light" played to an audience of two.

Sheila and Finn sat in the middle row, sharing the armrest between them.

The theater smelled of popcorn and history—it had been showing independent films since before Sheila was born.

She remembered coming here as a teenager, watching foreign movies she barely understood but pretended to appreciate.

"Feels strange, doesn't it?" she whispered. "Like we're kids sneaking in after hours."

Finn's hand found hers in the darkness. "Except we're watching a psychological thriller about a murderer instead of making out in the back row."

"Who says we can't do both?" The joke felt good—a moment of lightness in the heavy air of investigation. But then the scene they'd been waiting for began to play out on screen.

The flickering light from the screen cast shadows across the nearly empty theater.

The film's stark prison setting created a haunting backdrop as Micah Weller, the actor who'd gotten the role Thomas Rivera had auditioned for, sat against a prison wall, head tilted in that familiar pose.

His prison uniform was deliberately shabby, his hands resting loose in his lap—exactly the position they'd found Thomas in.

Even the lighting was similar, harsh overhead fluorescents casting dramatic shadows across his face.

The similarity to how they'd found Thomas made Sheila's chest tighten. She felt Finn's hand squeeze hers gently.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Just processing." She watched the scene unfold—the condemned man waiting to hear his fate, his stillness almost unnatural.

The camera slowly pushed in on his face, catching every micro-expression.

A guard's footsteps echoed down the corridor, growing closer.

The prisoner didn't move, didn't even seem to breathe. Just that terrible, patient waiting.

"The staging is identical," Finn whispered. "Even the angle of his head."

"Not identical," Sheila corrected quietly. "Perfect. Like someone studied this scene frame by frame, memorized every detail."

She watched as tension built in the scene, the guard's footsteps stopping just out of frame. The prisoner remained motionless, but his throat worked as he swallowed. The camera held steady on his face, refusing to cut away.

"About Thomas. About Jessica. About how someone looked at them and saw... this. Saw them as characters to be posed in their own private performance."

The film's score swelled dramatically—strings and percussion building to a crescendo as the prisoner received news of his parole.

The guard's voice was deliberately muffled, making the prisoner's reaction the sole focus.

A single tear tracked down his cheek as the news sank in.

The camera stayed brutally close, documenting every moment of his transformation from condemned man to free one.

On screen, the actor's performance was masterful—subtle shifts in his expression conveying disbelief, hope, fear that this might be a cruel joke. His hands trembled slightly as he raised them to cover his face.

But Sheila could only see Thomas Rivera's body, those same hands carefully arranged in his lap, that same head tilt captured with surgical precision. The killer hadn't just recreated this scene—he'd elevated it, turned murder into his own twisted form of method acting.

"Our killer didn't just watch this film," she said as the scene continued to play out.

"He studied it. Memorized it. Understood exactly what made this moment powerful.

" She gestured at the screen where the actor was finally standing, unsteady on his feet as he absorbed his freedom.

"And then he recreated it, detail by detail, using Thomas as his actor. "

"But Thomas never got to finish his performance," Finn added grimly. "Never got to experience that moment of release."

The scene faded to black, the score gradually dying away until only the sound of the prisoner's ragged breathing remained. In the darkness, Sheila could almost see Thomas Rivera's face, forever frozen in that moment of anticipation, waiting for a resolution that would never come.

As the movie continued, Sheila found herself growing reflective.

"Sometimes I wonder," she said quietly, "if this job is changing me. Making me see the darkness in everything." She turned to Finn, whose face was illuminated by the flickering light from the screen. "Even this—sitting in a movie theater with you—feels different now. Tainted, almost."

Finn shifted in his seat to face her. "Tainted?"

She shook her head. "That's not the right word. I'm not trying to say this isn't special, it's just…" She sighed. "I don't know how to explain it."

He was silent for a few moments.

"You're not alone in this, you know," he finally said.

"I know." She managed a small smile. "That's probably the only thing keeping me sane right now. That, and Star's art show next week. Normal things to look forward to."

The scene changed. Sheila leaned her head against Finn's shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with coffee and autumn air.

"Remember our second date?" she asked. "Right here, watching that terrible French comedy neither of us understood."

"I was so nervous," Finn admitted. "Kept trying to think of clever things to say about the cinematography."

"You didn't need to be clever." She pressed closer to him. "You just needed to be you."

Above them, the projector continued its steady rhythm, casting shadows and light across their faces.

On screen, the story continued its dark exploration of redemption and revenge, but Sheila found herself focused on smaller things—the warmth of Finn's hand in hers, the soft sound of his breathing, the way their shoulders fit perfectly together.

"I've been thinking," she said after a while. "About what Rider said. About people who see murder as performance."

"What about it?"

"This murderer isn't just killing. He's directing. Casting. Creating his own narrative." She straightened slightly but didn't let go of his hand. "These scenes he's recreating—they're not random. They mean something to him."

"Like what?"

"I don't know yet. But watching this..." She gestured at the screen.

"The way the main character is presented, the themes of judgment and redemption.

.. Someone chose these specific scenes for a reason.

Plenty of actors are denied roles, sometimes unfairly.

But what made the killer focus on these two actors? Or was it more about these two movies?"

Finn was quiet for a moment, thinking. "We still need to watch 'The Winter Palace.' See how Jessica's scene fits into all this."

"Tomorrow," Sheila said. "Rider will have the festival archive key in the morning." She settled back against him, suddenly aware of how exhausted she was. "Right now, I just want to sit here with you. Pretend for a few minutes that we're just two people watching a movie together."

"We are two people watching a movie together," Finn said softly.

"You know what I mean."

The film played on, its images washing over them in waves of light and shadow.

Sheila knew they should be paying closer attention, looking for clues in every frame.

But for now, she let herself exist in this moment—in the quiet darkness of an empty theater, holding hands with the man she loved, pretending that tomorrow wouldn't bring more death and darkness to their door.

Because tomorrow would come soon enough. And with it, all the horror and complexity of their investigation would resume. But for these few precious minutes, they could just be Sheila and Finn, watching a movie together on a cold October night.

Even if the movie was about a murderer. Even if somewhere out there, a killer was perhaps planning their next performance.

The projector hummed steadily overhead, marking time like a metronome. Sheila closed her eyes, just for a moment, and let herself remember what it felt like to be young and hopeful in this very theater, before she knew just how dark the world could be.

Before, she knew that sometimes the most dangerous people were the ones who saw life itself as nothing more than a performance to be directed.

***

The festival archives occupied a cramped basement room beneath the Coldwater Theater, the concrete walls lined with metal shelves holding decades of independent films. Sheila stifled a yawn as she and Finn sat before the ancient TV cart where they'd just finished watching "The Winter Palace."

Neither had slept much. After leaving the Art House Cinema around 2 AM, they'd gone back to the station to coordinate the festival shutdown, then crashed for a few hours on the break room couch. Sheila's neck still ached from the awkward angle.

"Well," Finn said, ejecting the DVD, "that confirms it. The scene where Jessica was posed—it's exactly like Claire Montgomery's death scene. The blue dress, the chair placement, even the angle of her head." He rubbed his tired eyes. "Our killer has an eye for detail, I'll give them that."

"Almost like a director," Sheila said. She stood and stretched, trying to work out the kinks in her shoulders. "Two films, two scenes, two victims posed to match roles they didn't get."

"But why these specific scenes? These specific actors?"

Before Sheila could respond, footsteps on the stairs announced Carl Rider's arrival. He looked as exhausted as they felt, his sweater wrinkled and his wire-rimmed glasses slightly askew.

"Any insights?" he asked, gesturing at the TV.

"We need to talk to the actors who got these roles," Sheila said. "Claire Montgomery from 'The Winter Palace' and whoever played the lead in 'Ghost Light.'"