Page 23 of Silent Home (Sheila Stone #13)

Sheila took the stairs two at a time, her hand on her weapon. The third-floor hallway of Sarah Martinez's apartment building was eerily quiet, the kind of midday stillness that made every footstep seem too loud.

Sheila's heart sank. No movement, no sound from within. Just the weight of silence and the faint scent of Sarah's perfume lingering in the air.

They drew their weapons and approached carefully. Sheila noticed a blue sweater draped over a chair just inside—the casual domesticity of it made her throat tighten. Someone getting ready to go out. Someone who expected to come back.

"Clear the rooms together?" Finn asked softly.

Sheila nodded. They'd done this countless times, but something about today felt different. Maybe it was the morning sun streaming through the windows, making everything too bright, too real. Or maybe it was the growing certainty of what they would find.

The living room was a snapshot of an artist's life. Scripts are scattered across a window seat, and post-it notes are marking crucial pages. A video camera set up on a tripod, presumably for recording audition tapes. Coffee cups on every surface, some still half-full.

But no sign of struggle.

"Kitchen's clear," Finn whispered, checking around the breakfast bar.

They moved deeper into the apartment. A hallway led to what appeared to be a bedroom, its door partially open. Sheila's training kicked in as they approached—check the corners, watch the sight lines, stay focused.

But nothing could have prepared her for what they found.

The bedroom door creaked as Finn pushed it open, revealing a scene that made Sheila's breath catch.

Sarah Martinez sat propped against the headboard of her bed, perfectly posed.

She wore a vintage dress that must have been brought by the killer—the same costume from the bell tower scene they'd just watched being projected at the Mountain View Theater.

Her head was tilted back, eyes closed, hands folded in her lap. Around her neck, the familiar marks of gaffer's wire caught the morning light. But it was her expression that haunted Sheila—peaceful, almost transcendent, like Elena's face in that final moment of confronting her father's ghost.

"We're too late," Finn said softly.

Sheila holstered her weapon, her movements mechanical. "I should have connected it sooner. The screening, the missing role..."

She stared at Sarah's still form, at the precise arrangement of every detail. This wasn't just murder—it was direction. Someone had staged this scene with loving attention, creating their own twisted version of the film's climactic moment.

And Sheila had let it happen.

"Don't," Finn said, reading her thoughts. "We couldn't have known."

But they should have. The pieces had been there—an actor who lost a role, a crucial scene, a killer who turned rejection into performance. Now, Sarah Martinez would never see how Jessica Kent had played her dream role. Would never know if the producers had made the right choice.

Would never perform again.

Sheila moved closer to the body, careful not to disturb anything that might be evidence.

The vintage dress was expertly fitted, as if the killer had known Sarah's measurements exactly.

The fabric shimmered in the morning light—authentic to the period, probably borrowed or stolen from the festival's costume department.

Jessica had been wearing a dress, too. But Thomas Rivera had been found in his work clothes. Why? Because he was murdered in a public place where the killer didn't have time to change him?

"Check the rest of the apartment," she said quietly. "The killer might have left something behind."

As Finn moved out, Sheila studied the scene more carefully. The position was perfect—exactly like the film's bell tower scene, but translated to this intimate setting. Sarah's dark hair had been arranged to catch the light from the window, creating the same dramatic shadows they'd seen on screen.

"Sheila," Finn called from the living room. "You need to see this."

She found him holding a notebook, its pages filled with Sarah's handwriting. "Her audition notes," he said. "Listen to this: 'Elena's final scene isn't about madness—it's about transcendence. She's not running from her father's ghost, she's embracing it. Finally understanding.'"

The words hit Sheila hard. Sarah had understood the role deeply, had seen layers that maybe even the writers hadn't intended. And someone had used that understanding to create this grotesque tribute.

"There's more," Finn said, turning pages. "She'd been studying bell towers, learning about their history. Even visited the one at St. Mark's Cathedral to get a feel for the height, the acoustics."

"The killer must have known all this," Sheila said. "Must have watched her audition, seen her interpretation." She looked back toward the bedroom. "This wasn't just about recreating a scene. It was about honoring her vision of the character."

"While destroying any chance she had of playing it."

Sheila swallowed hard. "The festival being canceled didn't stop him," she said. "If anything, it might have accelerated his timeline."

"We need to find Paul Wilson," Finn said. "Those DVDs in his projection booth—"

"Might not mean anything," Sheila interrupted. "Maybe we've been looking at this wrong. Wilson has technical knowledge, yes. But this..." She gestured toward the bedroom. "This requires something else. An artistic eye. An understanding of performance."

An idea struck her. "The audition tapes," she said. "Wilson said they keep everything for insurance purposes. But who actually reviews those tapes? Who makes the final casting decisions?"

"The director," Finn said. "And producers."

Sheila pulled out her phone. "Call Rider. Get a list of everyone involved in casting for both productions. Someone watched these auditions, someone saw the performances that never made it to screen."

Someone who thought they could do better.

As if in response to her thoughts, a cold breeze drifted through the apartment. The killer had left the door open like a theater exit, inviting the audience—them—to witness his latest work.

His latest performance.

And Sheila had a terrible feeling it wouldn't be his last.