Page 27 of Silent Home (Sheila Stone #13)

The interrogation room at the Coldwater County Sheriff's Department was deliberately stark—bare white walls, a metal table bolted to the floor, three chairs, and a two-way mirror that reflected Paul Wilson's calm demeanor back at him.

He sat perfectly straight, hands folded on the table as if attending a production meeting rather than a murder interrogation.

Sheila had positioned herself in the chair across from him, while Finn leaned against the wall behind her, arms crossed.

They'd done this dance countless times before—she would lead the questioning while Finn observed, ready to pick up on any subtle tells she might miss.

After years of working together, they could practically read each other's thoughts.

"Let's go through this again," Sheila said, keeping her voice neutral. A paper cup of water sat untouched before Wilson—they'd offered it twenty minutes ago, but he hadn't so much as glanced at it. "You claim you were documenting performances?"

"I don't claim anything," Wilson replied.

His voice carried the same measured tone he'd used in the Art House basement.

"I state facts. I am a documentarian. I record performances, study them, preserve them.

That's what the equipment in my projection booth was for.

That's what all my work has been about."

"And the surveillance cameras?" Finn asked, tapping his foot—a consequence of the several cups of coffee he'd drunk since starting the interrogation. "The hidden rooms?"

"Necessary tools." Wilson adjusted his glasses—not nervously, Sheila noted, but precisely, like an actor hitting his mark. He seemed much calmer now than when they'd first confronted him at the theater.

"Do you have any idea how many brilliant performances are lost?" he asked. "How many moments of genuine artistry vanish because no one thought to preserve them?"

"Like Jessica Gregory's performance?" Sheila watched his face carefully. "Or Sarah Martinez's?"

"Exactly!" For the first time, real emotion crept into Wilson's voice. "Jessica brought something raw and vulnerable to that role. Sarah understood Elena in ways the writer never did. I had to document that. Had to preserve it."

"By killing them?"

"No." Wilson's denial was immediate and firm. "I told you—I document. I observe. I record. The murder of these performers... it goes against everything I believe in. Everything I've worked for."

Sheila opened the case file before her, spreading out crime scene photos. "We found gaffer's wire in your possession. The same type used in all three murders."

"I'm a technical director. I work with theatrical equipment. That wire was for cable management—you can check my receipts, my work orders. I buy it in bulk every festival season."

"And the costumes? The staged scenes?"

"I maintain a collection of theatrical materials.

For documentation purposes." Wilson leaned forward slightly.

"Sheriff Stone, think about this logically.

I've spent nine years building an archive of performances.

Creating a record of artistic evolution.

Why would I destroy what I'm trying to preserve? "

Finn pushed off from the wall and circled the table slowly. "Tell us about Anna Martin."

"A remarkable talent. Her interpretation of mental breakdown in 'Glass Heart' was revolutionary. The producers made a terrible mistake not casting her." Wilson's eyes tracked Finn's movement. "I was helping her develop that performance. Documenting it. Nothing more."

"In a basement," Sheila said. "With gaffer's wire nearby."

"In a theater space, with professional equipment.

I use those basement rooms for recording sessions—the acoustics are perfect.

" He gestured at the crime scene photos.

"Yes, I had wire there. I also had lights, microphones, cables—everything needed for proper documentation. That doesn't make me a killer."

Sheila studied him. His story hadn't wavered in the three hours they'd been questioning him. Every detail remained consistent, every explanation plausible. Even his apparent obsession with recording performances fit with what others had said about him.

"Where were you when Jessica Gregory was killed?" she asked.

"At the Revival Cinema. Checking sound equipment for the midnight screening." He didn't hesitate. "There's timestamped footage from the lobby cameras. I spoke with the projectionist around nine-fifteen."

"And Thomas Rivera?"

"Working late at the Mountain View Theater. Again, you can verify this with security footage. I was there until nearly midnight, preparing for Bradley Greenwald's premiere."

"Sarah Martinez?"

"I was meeting with festival technical staff about the shutdown procedures.

Six people can confirm this." Wilson spread his hands.

"I know how this looks. The recordings, the surveillance—it seems suspicious.

But I'm not your killer. I'm just someone who recognizes artistic brilliance and wants to preserve it. "

Sheila exchanged a glance with Finn. They'd been partners long enough that she could read his thoughts: Wilson's alibis would check out. He had to know they wouldn't release him until verifying his alibis, so it would be foolish to make up these details.

"Tell me about the tunnels," she said. "Under the Revival Cinema."

"Historical architecture. Part of the original building.

I discovered them while renovating, realized they were perfect for storage and cable routing.

" Wilson's voice took on an enthusiastic tone.

"Did you know there used to be a whole network of utility tunnels under downtown?

Most are sealed now, but some still connect to the old steam system. Fascinating engineering."

"And you used them for observation."

"For documentation. The acoustics are remarkable in places.

And the hidden rooms provided perfect storage for my archive.

" He gestured at the crime scene photos again.

"Yes, I watched people. Yes, I recorded performances without their knowledge.

I admit that. But killing them? Destroying what I've worked so hard to preserve? " He shook his head. "Never."

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Down the hall, a phone rang in the bullpen. Sheila rotated one of the crime scene photos, studying the precise arrangement of Sarah Martinez's body.

"If you're not the killer," she said carefully, "why run from us at the Revival?"

"Because I knew how it would look. The recordings, the surveillance—I knew you'd misunderstand.

And I needed to protect my archive." Wilson leaned forward.

"Sheriff Stone, someone is using my documentation against me.

Using my knowledge of these performers to stage their deaths.

But it wasn't me. I study performance. I preserve it. I don't destroy it."

"Then who is destroying it?" Finn asked.

"I don't know." For the first time, frustration crept into Wilson's voice. "I've been trying to figure that out myself. Someone who has access to my recordings. Someone who knows about the performances I've documented. Someone who..."

He trailed off, staring at his reflection in the two-way mirror.

"Someone who what?" Sheila prompted.

"Someone who understands performance," Wilson said quietly. "But not the way I do. Not as something to be preserved. As something to be... directed."

The word hung in the air between them. Sheila felt Finn shift behind her—the subtle movement that meant he'd caught something significant.

"Are you saying someone else is using your surveillance system?" she asked.

"I'm saying someone else is using my life's work to destroy what I've tried to protect." Wilson's reflection stared back at him, ghostly in the harsh light. "And until you understand that, more performers will die. More art will be lost."

"In case you've forgotten," Finn said, "the festival has been shut down."

"That hasn't stopped your killer yet, has it? And even if it does… what about when the next festival starts up? Will anyone be safe?"

Sheila closed the case file slowly. "We'll verify those alibis," she said. "In the meantime, you'll be staying with us."

Wilson nodded, almost serenely. "Of course. Though you're wasting precious time. Time others may not have."

Outside the interrogation room, the fluorescent lights in the hallway seemed unnaturally bright after hours of focused questioning. Sheila rubbed her eyes, feeling the weight of too many sleepless hours.

"You look like you need food," Finn said, loosening his tie. "When's the last time you ate something that wasn't from a vending machine?"

She tried to remember. "Yesterday? Maybe?"

"Peak Diner's still open. We could grab something, go over what we know." He checked his watch. "Though at this hour it's technically breakfast."

"Breakfast sounds perfect." She couldn't remember the last time she'd had a real meal. Between the festival murders, the discovery of Tommy's laptop, and now Wilson's calm insistence of innocence, everything was starting to blur together.

"Meet you at the car," Finn said. "Just need to hit the restroom. All that coffee's catching up with me."

Sheila nodded, already heading for the parking lot. The October night had turned cold while they were inside, and she pulled her jacket closer as she crossed to her truck. The lot was nearly empty this late—just a few patrol cars and her own vehicle sitting beneath flickering sodium lights.

She unlocked the door and climbed in, starting the engine to get some heat going. That's when she noticed it—a scent that didn't belong. Something crisp and masculine, like expensive cologne, but definitely not Finn's familiar scent.

Her hand moved instinctively toward her weapon.

"I wouldn't," said a quiet voice from the back seat. "Hands on the steering wheel, please. And don't turn around."