Page 22 of Silent Home (Sheila Stone #13)

The vinyl booth at Sunny's Diner squeaked as Marcus Harlow shifted uncomfortably. Empty coffee cups and half-eaten pieces of toast cluttered the table between them. Through the window, Sheila could see festival cleanup crews taking down the last of the street banners.

"I really don't know what else to tell you," Marcus said, pushing his thick-rimmed glasses up. "Paul's just the tech guy. Barely talks to anyone except when he has to. I mean, yeah, he was around for all the auditions, but he was running sound. That's it."

Sheila shared a glance with Finn. They'd been at this for hours now, interviewing everyone connected to the festival's technical side. Their notepad was filled with dead ends.

She sighed deeply. "Well, thanks for your time," she said, sliding out of the booth.

Outside, the October sun had burned away the morning fog, but the air remained crisp. Main Street felt hollow without the festival crowd—just local shops reopening, trying to pretend things were normal despite the murders.

"That's what, six interviews this morning?" Finn asked as they walked toward their car. "And still nothing solid."

"Seven if you count the custodian," Sheila said. "And all he could tell us was that Paul Wilson sometimes worked late. Not exactly damning information."

They crossed the theater parking lot, their footsteps sharp in the unusual quiet. A lone festival poster fluttered against a lamppost, already looking like something from the distant past.

"Let's break it down," Finn said. "What do we actually know?"

Sheila counted off on her fingers. "The killer has intimate knowledge of both films. Access to theater equipment, specifically gaffer's wire. Knows the building layouts, security blind spots. And most importantly, strong opinions about who should have gotten these roles."

"Which could describe half the people involved in local theater," Finn said.

"True." Sheila paused near their car, looking back at the Coldwater Theater's facade. "But there's something else—the timing feels deliberate. Why now? Why during the festival?"

"Maximum impact?" Finn suggested. "More eyes on the performance?"

"Maybe." She leaned against the car, feeling the sun-warmed metal through her jacket. "It's not a knee-jerk reaction—if it were, Jessica would have been killed much sooner, maybe back when her film premiered."

"What I don't get is why, if you think they deserved these roles, you'd kill them.

It would be more logical to me if he targeted the people who actually did get the roles.

It would be a protest of sorts. But this…

" He shook his head. "Why is he punishing the people he thinks are most talented, most deserving? "

"He must not see it as punishment," Sheila mused. "Maybe, in his warped view, it's a reward—everyone gets to see them in the role they auditioned for. Their moment of glory." She trailed off, chewing her lip.

"But if that's the case," Finn said, "what happens now that the festival is closed? Does he stop killing… or just find a new audience?"

They stood in silence for a moment, watching a pickup truck haul away dismantled vendor booths. It was almost noon, and they were no closer to identifying their killer than they had been last night.

"Whatever the case, Paul Wilson's still our best lead," Finn said finally. "Those DVDs in his projection booth—they weren't just random movies. They were organized, labeled."

She thought about Wilson's nervousness and his too-quick explanations. Something about him nagged at her, but was it genuine suspicion or just the frustration of a stalled investigation?

"Well," Finn said, "if we're going to conduct any more interviews, we'd better get to it. This place is becoming a ghost town in a hurry."

Movement caught Sheila's attention, and she straightened up. "Maybe not as empty as we thought." She nodded toward the Mountain View Theater, where two people were slipping in through a side door, glancing around furtively as they did so. One carried what looked like a laptop bag.

"That's odd," Finn said. "So much for the festival being shut down."

They crossed the street, approaching the theater quietly. The door was propped slightly open with a wooden wedge. Inside, they could hear the muffled sound of a movie playing—not the usual booming audio of a proper screening, but something softer, like it was being played through portable speakers.

The theater's darkness enveloped them as they entered.

On screen, a young woman in period dress was ascending a bell tower, her face illuminated by lightning flashes.

The image quality wasn't perfect—clearly a preview copy being projected from someone's laptop.

About twenty people sat scattered throughout the seats, completely absorbed in the film.

A young man spotted them and jumped up. "Look, we know we're not supposed to be here, but—"

"Sit down," someone hissed. "We're missing Elena's big scene!"

"This theater is closed," Finn said, though he kept his voice low out of instinctive respect for the viewers. It was more a question than a statement.

A woman with bright red hair turned around. "Please don't stop it. We're film students—this was supposed to premiere tonight. 'Southwestern Gothic.' We've been waiting months to see it."

"You do realize there's been a murder," Sheila said, "and the festival's been shut down for safety reasons?"

"We're being careful," another viewer insisted. "Everyone here knows each other. We're part of the local film community. Look, there's only thirty minutes left—can't you just let us finish?"

Sheila studied the group. They did seem to know each other, chatting quietly between scenes, making notes in journals. These weren't random moviegoers but serious film enthusiasts.

"How did you even get a copy?" Finn asked.

Several people shushed him as a crucial scene began. On screen, the protagonist was confronting what appeared to be her father's ghost, the camera work creating a dizzying sense of height in the bell tower.

"Sarah's friend works in post-production," the red-haired woman whispered. "Said we could do one private screening, just for the local crowd. Most of us were involved in the production somehow."

"Who's Sarah?" Sheila asked, her investigator's instincts awakening.

"Sarah Martinez." The woman sat up and looked around. "She's still not here?"

No answer. Sheila's toes instinctively clenched. "Did Sarah audition for this film, by any chance?"

The woman nodded. "Yeah, she auditioned for Elena—that's the lead role." She gestured at the screen where the protagonist was delivering an emotional monologue. "She was amazing in the audition, but they went with Jessica Kent instead. More festival credits to her name."

"Sarah was devastated," someone else added. "She'd researched the role for months. Even learned bell-ringing to understand the character better."

"And she was supposed to be here?" Finn asked.

The red-haired woman checked her phone. "She helped organize this whole thing. I was texting all morning about it. But she hasn't responded in over an hour."

"That's not like her," another viewer said. "She's almost compulsively punctual. Says it's a trait she picked up from auditioning."

Sheila was getting a bad feeling about this. She moved closer to the group. "Tell me more about her audition."

"It was incredible," the red-haired woman said. "I was working sound that day. She brought something different to Elena—this quiet intensity. Everyone thought she had it locked. But then the producers insisted on someone with more name recognition."

"The same producers who are here for the festival?" Finn asked.

" We're here," someone said. "Most of them left when the festival got canceled. But yeah, same ones."

On screen, Elena was now at the top of the bell tower, the camera swirling around her as she confronted her demons. The scene was beautifully shot, but Sheila found herself more interested in the audience's reactions—particularly how several of them were shaking their heads.

"Kent's playing it too big," one viewer muttered. "Sarah understood the subtlety."

"Where does Sarah live?" Sheila asked, trying to keep her voice casual.

"Over on Maple Street," the red-haired woman said. "Apartment 3C. Should we... should we be worried? I mean, she's probably just sleeping in or something. The festival being canceled hit her pretty hard."

"Especially after what happened with Jessica Gregory," another viewer added. "Sarah said it reminded her how fragile an acting career can be. How quickly opportunities can disappear."

The movie was building to its climax now, the bell tower scene reaching its dramatic peak. But Sheila was already moving toward the exit, Finn right behind her.

A young actor, devastated about losing a role. And now she wasn't answering her phone.

They needed to get to Sarah's apartment.

Before she became the killer's next performance.