Page 2 of Silent Home (Sheila Stone #13)

Sheila Stone watched Tommy Forster through the hospital room window, trying to reconcile the pale figure in the bed with the man who'd tried to kill her just a week ago.

Tubes and wires connected him to softly beeping machines, while the oxygen mask clouding with each breath offered the only proof he was still alive.

"I still don't get how it happened," Sheila murmured. "I had my two most trusted deputies watching him."

"Roberts swears nothing unusual happened during her shift," her father said from beside her. Gabriel Stone's silver hair caught the harsh hospital lighting as he studied his own reflection in the observation window. "Baxter says the same about his."

"They're good deputies," Sheila said, her gaze shifting from Tommy to Officer Roberts, who was sitting in a chair in Tommy's room, paging through a magazine.

"They'd never involve themselves in something like this.

" Which made Tommy's current condition even more troubling.

She'd specifically assigned Roberts and Baxter to guard Tommy after his attempt on her life, knowing his connections within the department made him vulnerable. Or dangerous. Probably both.

And yet, someone had gotten to him nonetheless. They hadn't killed him, but they'd done enough to put him in a coma—which, at least for now, was just as effective a way to silence him.

Sheila touched the glass, remembering how it felt to wake up in a hospital bed herself after Tommy had left her to die in that abandoned research facility. "Someone got to him during the shift change," she said. "Had to be."

The official report said cardiac arrest—sudden, unexpected, no clear cause.

But Sheila didn't believe in coincidences, not when it came to Tommy.

Not when he'd been about to tell them everything he knew about the corruption that had infested the Coldwater County Sheriff's Department for decades.

The same corruption that had gotten her mother killed ten years ago, when Henrietta Stone had discovered evidence that threatened powerful people.

Evidence that Gabriel had found during his time in Internal Affairs but had chosen to bury, hoping to protect his family.

That decision had cost Henrietta her life and nearly cost Sheila hers, when those same powerful people planted Tommy in her department to spy on her—and eventually to silence her.

"Security footage shows nothing suspicious," Gabriel said. "No visitors, no unauthorized personnel. Just Tommy alone in his cell, then suddenly on the floor."

"Someone got to him," Sheila repeated. "The question is how." She studied Tommy's unconscious form. "And whether they'll try again when they realize he survived."

Gabriel shifted beside her, and she caught the subtle change in his posture that meant he was choosing his words carefully. "What if this can end with Tommy?" he asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Think about it. If Tommy can't talk, if he can't name names..." Gabriel's voice grew quieter. "Maybe everyone stays safe. Maybe no one else has to die."

"Like Mom, you mean?" The words came out sharper than she'd intended.

Gabriel flinched but didn't look away. "Hank swears he didn't know what Tommy was planning. Says he was just doing a favor for his nephew, getting him a job."

He was referring to Hank Dawson, the interim sheriff before Sheila took over—and a man she'd considered to be as straight a shooter as they came.

But Hank had helped Tommy get a position within the Coldwater Sheriff's Department, and Tommy had then tried to kill Sheila, which made her wonder if the older man had been in on it.

Gabriel had spoken with Hank and seemed to believe Hank was innocent. It was difficult to tell, though, if her father was just believing what he wanted to believe.

Gabriel sighed heavily. "What if he's telling the truth? What if we're seeing conspiracy where there's just coincidence?"

"You don't believe that."

"No." He was silent for a few moments. "There's definitely something going on. I guess seeing what they did to Tommy—it just gets a man thinking."

"You mean you're getting cold feet about going after the people who orchestrated Mom's death? You seemed gungho about it just a few hours ago." She made no effort to hide her anger.

Gabriel's expression was pained. "You're right. We need to see this through. I just don't want you getting hurt, is all. If they can get to Tommy when he's got two officers watching him…"

Inside Tommy's room, a nurse adjusted his pillows.

Rosa, according to her name tag. She had to be close to retirement age, with silver-streaked black hair and the careful movements of someone who'd spent decades caring for the sick.

She reminded Sheila of her mother's friend Maria, who used to bring soup whenever one of the kids was ill.

"He's in good hands," Gabriel said, following her gaze. "Rosa's been here since before you were born. Used to patch me up when things got rough on patrol."

"But he has to wake up." Sheila watched Rosa check Tommy's vitals. "He's our only lead. Without his testimony—"

"We have nothing concrete. I know. In the meantime, what's your plan to keep Tommy safe?"

"Roberts and Baxter will look after him."

Gabriel frowned, surprised. "Even after what just happened?"

"They'll be twice as vigilant now. Besides, who else can I trust?"

"You're sure they weren't in on it?"

"If they were," Sheila said, "then I'm a terrible judge of character. And I couldn't do my job if I was a terrible judge of character."

Her father seemed to chew on this for a few moments. "And while they're looking after Tommy, what will you be doing? I know you too well to think you're just gonna sit on your hands."

"I can't make Tommy talk right now, but I can find evidence. Starting with a toxicology report. I want to know what they did to Tommy."

"Could be useful information."

Sheila watched Rosa adjust Tommy's IV with motherly care. "Someone in this county knows the truth. Someone has proof of what's really been happening. I just have to figure out who."

"And if you're wrong? If there's no proof to be found?"

"There's always proof. Always."

For a long moment, neither spoke. Sheila knew her father was terrified of losing her, just as he'd lost her older sister, Natalie, though Natalie's death—suicide—had had nothing to do with corruption within the department. Still, a loss was a loss.

And Gabriel's life had been full of them.

But Sheila also knew that throwing in the towel wasn't in her blood, no more than it had been back when she was a kickboxer competing for the Olympic gold medal. And silence didn't mean safety—apparently she already knew too much, which was why Tommy had tried to silence her.

So why would she pump the brakes now?

"Well," her father said, clearing his throat, "I'm going to head out. Got a friend whose kid needs help moving into an apartment. You sure Roberts and Baxter can handle it?"

"They're the only ones besides Finn that I trust completely," she said. "They've been taking shifts watching him since we brought him in." She paused. Her father's mention of an apartment had sparked an idea in her mind. "Any idea where Tommy was staying?" she asked.

Gabriel blinked, surprised by the question. "No, but it should be on file. Why?"

She decided to keep her reasoning to herself. She found herself questioning how much her father's heart was in this, and she didn't want him having second thoughts or trying to talk her down. Better for her to fly solo for now.

"Just wondering," she said. She offered her dad a smile. "Be careful, okay? Your life could be at risk just as much as mine is."

He patted the holster concealed beneath his jacket. "I may be old, but I ain't slow."

That won't do you much good if you don't see them coming, Sheila thought as she watched her father shuffle off down the hallway.

But she tried to assure herself her father could look after himself.

As a former kickboxing trainer and sheriff, he was every bit as deadly with his fists as he was with a gun.

Still, if he didn't see them coming…

Sheila pushed the thought aside and pulled out her phone, bringing up Tommy's personnel file.

His listed address was an apartment complex on Broadview Avenue, not far from the station.

As acting sheriff, she technically had the authority to enter any property connected to an active investigation.

And attempted murder—Tommy's attack on her in the research facility—certainly qualified.

She couldn't wake Tommy, not while he was in a coma. But that didn't mean she couldn't get answers.

***

The complex turned out to be one of those hastily constructed buildings that had sprung up during Coldwater's recent growth spurt—three stories of beige siding and narrow windows, with a sign advertising "luxury apartments" that looked anything but luxurious.

Tommy's unit was 2C, halfway down an exterior walkway that creaked under her feet.

She knocked first, maintaining the pretense of officiality. When no one answered, she studied the lock. Standard hardware store deadbolt, nothing fancy. The kind of lock that property managers often forgot to change between tenants.

Sheila pulled out her keyring. During her days as a patrol officer, she'd collected spare keys from various apartment managers, making copies "just in case.

" It wasn't strictly legal, but it had helped her check on elderly residents during wellness calls.

Now, she cycled through them, testing each one.

The fourth key slid in smoothly, and the door opened with a soft click. Sheila slipped inside, closing it behind her.

The apartment was sparsely furnished—a futon couch, a coffee table still bearing ring marks from the previous tenant, a TV mounted on the wall. Everything looked temporary, as if Tommy hadn't expected to stay long.

Or knew he wouldn't need to.

The kitchen held little beyond basic supplies and takeout containers. But in a trash can, she found a receipt from Peak Hardware dated three days before his attack on her. The items listed made her blood run cold: rope, duct tape…

Plastic sheeting.

Had he been planning to interrogate her, then get rid of her body? If so, who had put him up to it?

The bedroom yielded more clues about Tommy's true nature. The closet contained three identical sets of clothes—jeans, plain t-shirts, work boots. No personal touches, no photos or mementos. This wasn't a home; it was a base of operations.

Under the bed, she found a laptop. Password protected, of course. But if she could crack it, there was no telling what information it might contain.

Sheila's phone buzzed. Finn's name lit up the screen.

With a deep, calming breath, Sheila answered it. "What's up?"

"We've got a body," Finn said, his voice tight. "Young woman, found in Theater Seven at the film festival. Multiple witnesses say the victim was alive less than an hour ago."

Sheila stared at the laptop in her hands, her mind racing.

A murder at the festival would be devastating for Coldwater.

Main Street's shops and restaurants had been packed all week, local hotels were booked solid, and the surge in tourism was exactly what the town's struggling businesses needed.

One whisper of violence could destroy everything these merchants had been counting on.

Her heart sank at the thought.

"Did you hear me?" Finn asked.

"Yeah," she said, then cleared her throat, focusing on what he'd just told her. She thought of all the festival promotional materials she'd seen plastered across storefront windows—the promises of artistic celebration and cultural enrichment now tainted by violence. "I'll be right there."

Tommy's laptop would have to wait. But not for long, she hoped. And when she figured out who'd sent Tommy to spy on her and then try to end her life, who'd had her mother murdered…

There would be hell to pay.