Page 18 of Silent Home (Sheila Stone #13)

Rider pulled out his ever-present handkerchief, dabbing his forehead despite the basement's chill. "Claire's impossible, I'm afraid. She's filming a streaming series in Prague—has been for months."

"What about the lead from 'Ghost Light'?" Finn asked. "The role Thomas auditioned for?"

"Dylan Reeves." Rider replaced his handkerchief.

"Actually, he's here at the festival. Or was, before we started shutting down.

He moved to Los Angeles a few months ago, but he came back specifically for the festival.

Said he wanted to network, try to parlay his 'Ghost Light' performance into bigger roles. "

Sheila and Finn exchanged looks. "We need to find him," she said. "Before he leaves town."

"He was staying at the Mountain View," Rider said. "Though with everything that's happened, he might have checked out already."

Finn pulled out his phone and dialed the hotel while Sheila paced the small basement room. After a brief conversation, he lowered the phone.

"He's checking out right now," Finn said. "Front desk says he's settling his bill."

They rushed up the basement stairs and out into the cold morning air.

The festival's premature end had left Main Street feeling hollow, with only cleanup crews dismantling vendor booths and collecting abandoned programs. The Mountain View Hotel was less than two blocks away, but Sheila found herself jogging, unwilling to risk missing their lead.

They caught sight of Dylan Reeves in the hotel lobby just as he was heading for the exit, rolling suitcase in one hand and garment bag in the other.

He moved with the easy confidence of someone who expected doors to open for him.

Even in traveling clothes—designer jeans and a cashmere hoodie—he had the polished look of someone ready for a chance encounter with a casting director.

"Mr. Reeves," Sheila called out. "Sheriff Stone, Coldwater County. We need to speak with you."

Dylan turned, revealing classically handsome features and the kind of smile that probably got him callback after callback.

"Listen, I'd love to help, but my flight leaves in two hours.

Can we do this another time?" His voice carried the slight remnants of a Texas accent, softened by what Sheila guessed were years of dialect coaching.

"It's about the murders," Finn said quietly.

The smile faltered slightly. Dylan glanced between them, then at his watch—a subtle gesture that somehow managed to convey both concern and mild irritation. "I'm not sure how you expect me to be of any help."

"You got the lead role in 'Ghost Light,'" Sheila said. "The same role Thomas Rivera auditioned for before he was murdered last night."

Something flickered behind Dylan's eyes—recognition, maybe, or concern. But his expression remained carefully neutral. "Thomas Rivera? The hotel employee?"

"You knew him?"

"Not really. I mean, he brought room service a couple times." Dylan shifted his garment bag to his other hand. "Look, this is fascinating and all, but I really can't miss that flight. My agent set up meetings with—"

"The killer posed him to match your big scene," Sheila interrupted. "The one where you're waiting to hear about parole. Ring any bells?"

That got his attention. Dylan set down his luggage, his casual demeanor slipping just slightly. "Shit. You're serious?"

"Very. And we need to understand why the killer chose that scene, that role." Sheila gestured toward the hotel's coffee shop. "Twenty minutes of your time could help prevent another murder."

Dylan looked at his watch again, then sighed. "Fine. But I'm expense-claiming my changed flight." He managed a weak smile, as if trying to lighten the moment. "And I'm going to need coffee. Lots of coffee."

The coffee shop was empty except for a barista restocking pastries.

Dylan ordered something complicated with oat milk and extra espresso, then settled into a corner booth.

Up close, Sheila could better study his mannerisms—the way he arranged his napkin just so, how he seemed to instinctively choose the seat with the best lighting.

Everything about him spoke of someone highly aware of how he presented himself to the world.

"So," Sheila said, "what can you tell us about the audition process?"

"Pretty standard, really." Dylan shrugged as he stirred his coffee. "Cold read first, then callbacks with prepared scenes. I connected with the material right away—the whole redemption arc really spoke to me, you know? But I've always been good at evaluating my own strengths and weaknesses."

Sheila noticed how he managed to work in a mention of his acting ability, even while discussing a murder. She found herself wondering if his apparent cooperation was genuine or just another performance.

Dylan took a sip of his coffee, settling back in the booth.

His posture was loose, open—either genuine comfort or very good acting.

"I actually did time for the role," he said, catching their surprised looks.

"Method stuff, you know? Spent a weekend in county lockup.

Called in some favors, got permission to really experience what it's like being behind bars.

" He grinned. "My agent thought I was crazy, but it worked. Got me the part."

"Tell us about the actual audition day," Finn said.

"Let's see... there were maybe fifteen of us?

All reading for the lead. They filmed everything—standard practice these days.

Helps the creative team review performances later, compare different takes.

" He paused, tilting his head. "Come to think of it, I heard Thomas was really good.

Quiet intensity, you know? Different interpretation than mine, by the sound of it, but solid work.

He told me afterward he was doing it more as a favor for a friend, though. "

"You spoke with him?"

"Just a few words in the waiting room. Think he complimented my boots.

" Dylan glanced at his watch again, but without the earlier anxiety.

"Listen, I know what you're thinking. Guy who got the role might have motive to be involved, right?

But I was at a Q&A for 'Ghost Light' when Thomas was killed.

Had to be thirty people there, all recording it on their phones. Plus the theater's security footage."

He pulled out his phone, bringing up social media posts from the previous night's Q&A. The timestamps supported his story.

Sheila studied him as he scrolled through photos. As far as she could tell, everything checked out. This wasn't the person they were looking for.

That didn't mean they couldn't learn any other useful things from him, though.

"You mentioned they filmed the auditions," she said. "Would those recordings still exist?"

"Oh yeah, they keep everything. Liability issues, you know? Plus, it helps casting directors review their choices if anyone ever questions their decisions." He took another sip of coffee. "Someone in the production office should have copies."

Sheila felt a familiar spark of intuition. Audition tapes would show everyone who tried out for these roles—not just the people who made it to callbacks, but every person who walked through that door hoping for a chance. Every person who might have felt passed over, overlooked, denied their moment.

Then again, if the killer was someone who felt they'd been overlooked for a role (or multiple roles), why would they target others who'd also been overlooked? Wouldn't it be more logical for them to target the people who'd actually secured the roles?

It was clear to Sheila that she had yet to arrive at a working theory that explained the killings. Still, she sensed she was closer now than she'd ever been before.

"Who handles the technical side of recording auditions?" she asked.

"The festival has a whole AV department. Professional setup—multiple angles, good sound quality. You want to catch every nuance of the performance."

"But who specifically?" Finn pressed. "Who's in charge of documenting everything?"

Dylan thought for a moment. "Paul Wilson's been the technical director for years. He handles all the recording equipment and maintains the archives." He paused. "Actually, now that I think about it, he's kind of obsessive about documentation. Says he's creating a record of the creative process."

Sheila and Finn exchanged looks. Someone with technical expertise. Someone with access to all the theaters. Someone who would know about camera blind spots and how to work with specialized equipment like gaffer's wire.

"Would Wilson have access to the costume department?" Sheila asked carefully.

"Sure. He's got keys to pretty much everything. Been with the festival so long he's practically part of the building." Dylan checked his watch again. "Listen, I really do need to catch that flight..."

But Sheila was already standing, her mind racing. A technical director obsessed with documentation. Who would have seen every audition, every rejected actor, every moment of potential that never made it to the stage.

"We need to talk to Carl Rider," she told Finn as they left the coffee shop. "Find out everything he knows about Paul Wilson."

"You think Wilson's our killer?"

"I think someone's been studying these performances very carefully. Someone who understood exactly how to recreate specific scenes." She quickened her pace. "And someone who had access to all the equipment needed to document his own twisted productions."

They headed for Rider's office, both thinking about a man who spent his life watching others perform, recording their triumphs and failures. A man who might have decided to create his own performances, using the very actors he'd watched being rejected.