Page 21 of Silent Home (Sheila Stone #13)

Sarah Martinez checked her phone again as she hurried up the stairs to her third-floor apartment.

The group chat was buzzing with excitement—twenty-six local film buffs secretly gathering at the Mountain View Theater for one final screening.

Someone had gotten hold of a preview copy of "Southwestern Gothic," and even though the festival was officially over, they were determined to watch it.

The irony wasn't lost on her. The film she'd poured her heart into auditioning for, the role that should have been hers, would finally be shown—just not to the audience it deserved.

She fumbled with her keys, cursing the ancient lock that always stuck.

Her apartment was small but bright, morning sun streaming through the bay window where she practiced her lines.

A stack of well-worn scripts sat on the window seat, each one annotated with her careful notes.

The "Southwestern Gothic" sides were on top, the pages crinkled from countless readings.

Sarah caught a glimpse of herself in the hallway mirror—dark hair falling out of its messy bun, circles under her eyes from a mostly sleepless night.

She'd spent hours tossing and turning, thinking about Jessica Gregory's murder, about Thomas Rivera.

She hadn't known either of them well, but in a small theater community like Coldwater's, every death felt personal.

Still, she couldn't miss this screening. She had to see what Jessica Kent had done with Elena's role. Had to know if the director's "safer choice" had paid off.

Her phone buzzed again: Running behind. Door's propped for 10 more mins.

Coming! she texted back.

Sarah grabbed her messenger bag, the worn leather soft against her hip.

Inside was her audition notebook, filled with research about Elena's character—the young woman haunted by her father's ghost, driven to madness in that lonely bell tower.

She'd spent months developing Elena's backstory, understanding her motivations. The rejection still stung.

She needed her lucky sweater—the oversized blue cardigan she'd worn to her first successful audition. It was probably in her bedroom. As she turned to look, someone knocked on her door.

"Just a second!" she called out, assuming it was her neighbor Mrs. Grady, who often stopped by, ostensibly to share leftovers but really to trade gossip.

Sarah had left the door unlocked—it would only take a minute to grab the sweater, and Mrs. Grady had been in her apartment dozens of times before.

The bedroom was a mess of scattered clothing and script pages. She found the sweater half-hidden under her pillow, pulled it on over her t-shirt. The familiar softness was comforting. She checked her phone again. If she hurried, she'd make it.

"Sorry for the wait, Mrs. Grady!" she called out, heading back toward the living room. "I was just—"

But when she emerged from the bedroom, it wasn't Mrs. Grady waiting for her.