Page 25 of Silent Home (Sheila Stone #13)

Anna Martin's second-floor walkup was exactly the kind of place where you'd expect a struggling actor to live—crumbling brick exterior, window unit air conditioners rattling in their frames, bicycle delivery guys constantly coming and going.

Her roommate, Tracy, met them at the doorway in paint-splattered overalls.

"Anna left hours ago," Tracy said, glancing between them nervously. "Said she was meeting Paul Wilson at the Revival Cinema. Something about preparing for tonight's showcase."

"The showcase was canceled," Finn said.

"That's what I told her. But she said Paul had this idea about filming her performance anyway.

Said it could be good footage for her reel.

" Tracy twisted the hem of her shirt. "I thought it was weird, with everything going on, but Anna said Paul's been really supportive of her work.

Said he understood her artistic vision."

Sheila felt her stomach tighten. "What's Anna's cell number?"

Tracy recited it quickly. Sheila dialed while Finn continued questioning Tracy.

"Did she say specifically where they were meeting?" Finn asked.

"The main theater, I think. He has all his recording equipment there." Tracy's eyes widened as Sheila's call went straight to voicemail. "Wait, is Anna in trouble? Is Paul—"

"Try her again," Finn said quietly.

Sheila redialed. This time, it rang once before going to voicemail. She shook her head.

"Call us immediately if she contacts you," Sheila said, already moving toward the stairs. "And Tracy? Lock your door."

They hurried down to their car, Finn sliding behind the wheel while Sheila tried Anna's phone one more time. Still nothing.

"How far to the Revival?" she asked, checking her weapon.

"Four minutes with lights and sirens."

"Make it three."

The Revival Cinema's brick facade loomed before them less than three minutes later. Finn killed the sirens a block away, not wanting to announce their arrival. The side door was unlocked again, but this time the building didn't feel empty. As they drew their weapons, a door closed somewhere inside.

"You hear that?" Finn whispered.

Sheila nodded. They moved carefully through the dim corridor, checking each shadow. The main theater was dark, but a shaft of light spilled from beneath the projection booth door.

A woman's bag sat abandoned near the booth stairs—expensive leather, the kind of investment piece a young actor might buy to look professional at auditions. A script lay nearby, pages scattered as if dropped in a hurry.

"Anna's?" Finn asked quietly.

Sheila picked up the script. The margins were filled with careful notes in small, precise handwriting. The same kind of detailed character analysis they'd found in Sarah Martinez's apartment.

They climbed the stairs silently, but the projection booth was empty. The door to a small adjoining room stood open, revealing something that made Sheila catch her breath.

The room's walls were covered in monitors, each displaying footage from different locations around town. The Mountain View Hotel lobby. The Coldwater Theater's stage door. The Art House Cinema's parking lot.

"He's been watching everyone," Finn said softly.

Shelves lined the remaining wall space, filled with carefully labeled recordings. Not just audition tapes, but surveillance footage going back years. Each box had a name, a date, and detailed notes about the subject's "performance evolution."

"This is more than just auditions," Sheila said, examining the labels. "He's been studying them. Their habits, their routines." She pulled out her phone to call for backup, but something else caught her eye—a notebook open on the desk.

The handwriting wasn't Wilson's careful block letters, but something more flowing, more artistic. The last entry was dated that morning:

P says he's finally ready to show me his private collection. Says he's been documenting true performance art for years. Maybe this is my chance to prove I understand his vision. To show him I'm ready for a starring role.

"Anna wrote this," Sheila said. "She came here willingly."

"But where did they go?" Finn was examining the surveillance monitors. "None of these shows the inside of this building."

Sheila turned slowly, studying the room with new eyes. Decades of film reels lined the walls, meticulously labeled. Ancient projection equipment gathered dust in corners. But something about the space felt wrong.

"The room's too small," she said suddenly.

"What?"

"For a projection booth. Look at the exterior wall—it should extend another ten feet at least." She ran her hands along the wood paneling. "There has to be..."

Her fingers caught on something—a slight gap, barely noticeable unless you were looking for it. She pressed, and a panel shifted with a soft click.

Behind it was another door, solid metal with a heavy handle.

"That's not original to the building," Finn said quietly.

Sheila examined the handle. "Recently used too. See the oil on the hinges? Someone's been keeping it maintained."

They shared a look, both thinking the same thing: Wilson had spent nine years renovating this old theater. Nine years with unlimited access. Nine years to make modifications that nobody would notice.

Sheila checked her weapon, then reached for the handle. "Ready?"

Finn nodded, his own weapon drawn.

The door opened onto a narrow staircase leading down into darkness.

Sheila started down the stairs, keeping close to the wall.

Each step felt solid, professionally installed.

This wasn't some hasty renovation—someone had taken their time, created exactly what they needed.

The stairs seemed to descend forever, curving deeper beneath the old theater.

A door closed somewhere below. Then the sound of footsteps echoed up the stairwell.

"They're on the move!" Sheila said in an urgent whisper as she raced down the stairs. The beam of her flashlight bounced wildly against the walls, creating disorienting shadows.

A door closed below them. Then another.

"Multiple exits," Finn said between breaths. "He knows the layout."

They reached the bottom of the stairs, finding themselves in a concrete corridor that branched in three directions. Each branch disappeared into darkness, and all three had doors standing open.

"Split up?" Finn asked.

Sheila moved closer to the nearest doorway, listening. "Wait..."

A faint sound carried from the left corridor—something metal scraping against concrete.

They moved quickly but cautiously down the left branch. The air grew colder, damper. More doors lined the corridor, but these were older, original to the building. Except one—a modern steel door that stood slightly ajar.

As they approached, they heard movement on the other side. Sheila gestured for Finn to take the high position while she went low. On a silent count of three, they pushed through.

The room beyond was massive—some kind of former storage space, now converted into what looked like a private theater. Rows of seats faced a small stage. But Wilson wasn't there.

A door was closing on the far side.

"Stop! Police!" Sheila shouted, already running.

They burst through the door into another corridor, catching a glimpse of Wilson disappearing around a corner. His footsteps echoed off the walls, creating a disorienting cacophony.

Had he not heard them? Or was he trying to escape?

Sheila and Finn rounded the corner to find a maze of pipes and maintenance accessways. Steam hissed from somewhere deeper in the complex. Their flashlight beams caught brief glimpses of Wilson moving through the shadows, always just out of reach.

They followed the sound of Wilson's footsteps, but the echoes made it impossible to tell which direction they were really traveling.

Every few seconds they'd catch a glimpse of him—his gray hair, his wire-rimmed glasses reflecting their flashlights—but he always seemed to vanish just as they got close.

They emerged into another large room, this one filled with ancient boilers and electrical equipment. Their flashlights revealed multiple exits—maintenance doors, ventilation shafts, utility access points.

And no sign of Wilson.

They stood in silence, listening. The steam pipes creaked. Water dripped somewhere in the darkness. And then—so faint they almost missed it—the sound of breathing from behind one of the boilers.

Sheila moved silently around one side while Finn took the other. They had him cornered.

But when they reached the other side, they found only Wilson's jacket draped over a pipe, positioned to cast a human-shaped shadow.

And on the floor beneath it, a note written in Wilson's careful handwriting:

She wanted to understand method acting. Now she'll get her chance.

The sound of a door closing echoed from somewhere far above them, followed by silence.

Wilson was gone.

And they still didn't know where he'd taken Anna Martin.

Sheila stood in the damp tunnel, studying Wilson's note. The handwriting was precise, controlled—just like the murders, just like the crime scenes. Everything about the man spoke of careful planning, of attention to detail.

"Method acting," she said quietly. "Anna Martin told her roommate that Wilson understood her artistic vision."

"He was grooming her," Finn said, examining the jacket Wilson had left behind. "Getting her to trust him, just like he did with the others."

They did one final sweep of the boiler room, but found nothing else useful. The tunnels branched out in too many directions to search without backup. And somewhere above them, Paul Wilson might already be with his next victim.

"We need to think this through," Sheila said, fighting down her frustration. "Wilson's been planning this for years. These tunnels, the hidden rooms, the surveillance system—none of this was improvised."

"And he knows we're onto him now," Finn added. "He won't go back to the Revival Cinema."

Sheila paced the small space, her flashlight beam catching cobwebs and rust-stained pipes. "What was in his notes about Anna? About her auditions?"

Finn pulled out his phone and navigated to the photographs he'd taken of some of Wilson's files.

"She was up for the lead in 'Glass Heart'—some psychological thriller about a young actress losing her grip on reality.

Wilson wrote that her interpretation was 'transcendent' but the director went with someone more experienced. "

"Where was it supposed to be filmed?"

"Most of it at the Art House Cinema. They were going to use the old dressing rooms in the basement for the psychological breakdown scenes." Finn looked up. "You think that's where he took her?"

"I think it's our best shot at finding her right now." Sheila started toward the nearest exit.

They made their way back through the utility tunnels, eventually emerging through a maintenance door into the alley behind the Revival Cinema. The October afternoon had turned gray and cold, matching Sheila's mood.

"How do we play this?" Finn asked as they hurried to their car. "If we go in with sirens and lights, Wilson might panic."

"We do it quiet," Sheila said, starting the engine. "But first we need blueprints of the Art House. If there are tunnels under the Revival, there might be connections to other buildings. Wilson could have a whole network we don't know about."

"I'll call it in." Finn was already on his phone. "But Sheila... we might already be too late."

She gripped the steering wheel harder. "No. Wilson's different with this one. He left us that note, led us through those tunnels—it's like he's putting on a show. And the show isn't over yet."

But as they drove toward the Art House Cinema, Sheila couldn't shake the feeling that they were still missing something. Wilson's surveillance system, his detailed notes, the hidden rooms—it all suggested someone who preferred to watch rather than participate.

So why suddenly become a performer himself?

Unless this wasn't his performance at all.

Unless they were still watching exactly what someone else wanted them to see.