Page 29 of Silent Home (Sheila Stone #13)

Pulling herself together, she rose and oriented herself, using the stars visible between scattered clouds.

The highway had to be east of her position—she could faintly hear the occasional rumble of a semi-truck.

But walking toward the highway meant crossing rough terrain in the dark.

There had been a farmhouse somewhere to the northwest—she remembered seeing wood smoke earlier.

The corn stubble crunched under her boots as she turned slowly, scanning the horizon. There—a faint glow that had to be yard lights. It would mean walking across at least two fields, probably climbing fences, but it was her best option.

She started walking, using the scattered fence posts as guides. The temperature was dropping fast—typical for an October night in Utah. Her feet kept catching on dead stalks and furrows hidden in the darkness. An owl swooped silently overhead, hunting in the empty fields.

The first fence was barbed wire, probably for cattle. She found a post sturdy enough to support her weight and carefully climbed over, thankful for the years of physical training that kept her strength up. The second field was smoother—alfalfa maybe, or winter wheat.

The yard lights seemed to hover in the distance, not appearing to get any closer despite her steady progress. Out here in farm country, distances could be deceptive. What looked like a short walk could turn into miles.

Something skittered away through the darkness—a rabbit or maybe a coyote. Sheila kept walking. The wind had picked up, carrying the sharp scent of approaching winter. Her hands were growing numb, and she tucked them under her arms as she walked.

After what felt like an hour but was probably twenty minutes, she reached another fence. Beyond it, she could make out the silhouette of farm equipment—tractors and other machinery stored in a neat row. The yard lights illuminated a well-maintained ranch house and a large barn.

Emotionally and physically exhausted, she climbed the fence, not wanting to spook any dogs that might be around. Sure enough, a deep bark echoed from near the barn, followed by the sound of chain rattling against metal.

"Hello?" she called out, staying where she was. "I need help!"

A porch light flicked on. The door opened, spilling more light into the yard. A man's voice called out: "Who's there?"

"Sheriff Sheila Stone," she replied, barely managing to hold herself together. "My vehicle was stolen. I need to use your phone."

Silence for a moment. Then: "Stay where you are. I'm coming out."

The man who emerged carried a shotgun—not threatening, just careful. Out here, people learned to be cautious of strangers in the night. He was older, probably in his seventies, wearing work clothes despite the late hour.

"Sheriff Stone?" he asked, lowering the shotgun slightly. "Gabe's daughter?"

"Yes, sir." The recognition was a relief—her father's reputation in the county often opened doors. "I'm sorry to disturb you so late."

"Come on in," he said, gesturing toward the house. "Martha! Put some coffee on. We've got company."

The farmhouse kitchen was warm and bright, with copper pots hanging from the ceiling and the smell of fresh-baked bread lingering in the air.

Martha turned out to be a small woman with steel-gray hair and quick, efficient movements.

She took one look at Sheila and disappeared into another room, returning with a heavy sweater.

"You're half frozen," she said, handing it over. "Sit down before you fall down. Coffee's almost ready."

Sheila sank into a kitchen chair and pulled on the sweater. She could have wept with gratitude.

"I need to use your phone," she said. "My truck was stolen—I have to put out an APB."

The farmer—who had introduced himself as Earl Peterson—handed her a landline phone. "Cell reception's spotty out here. But the landline's reliable. And if you need a ride, I'm more than happy to help out."

Sheila dialed dispatch, her fingers still clumsy with cold.

When Neville answered, she quickly explained the situation—leaving out the man in the backseat, describing it simply as a carjacking.

It wasn't just about protecting her family and Finn—though those threats weighed heavily.

No, her gut told her that if she reported the man in her backseat, evidence would disappear.

Reports would be altered. Witnesses would change their stories.

Better to keep this close, tell only Finn, and watch carefully to see what moved in the shadows.

She gave the truck's description and plate number, then added: "And get word to Deputy Mercer. Tell him I'm safe but stranded."

"You want us to send someone for you?" Neville asked.

Sheila glanced at Earl, who was already shaking his head. "No need," she said. "Mr. Peterson has offered to drive me back to town."

Martha set a mug of coffee in front of her, along with a plate of fresh bread and butter. "Eat something first," she insisted. "You look done in."

Sheila took a few bites of the still-warm bread, knowing she should take time to eat but too anxious to stay still.

"I really need to get back," she said, standing. "But thank you for the coffee and bread."

Earl nodded, already reaching for his truck keys. "Martha, I'm taking the sheriff back to town."

The drive back was quiet, just the sound of Earl's old pickup rattling over country roads. The heater worked only intermittently, coughing out warm air in fits and starts. Sheila watched the empty fields roll past, thinking about the man's Irish accent and his expensive cologne.

Who was he? And why hadn't he killed her? Simply to avoid the trouble that would come from the murder of a sheriff?

That's why Tommy abandoned me in that research station, she thought. To make it look like an accident.

Earl dropped her at the sheriff's department, refusing her offer to pay for gas. As she watched his taillights disappear around the corner, a cold certainty settled over her: Tonight hadn't been about stealing her truck or even really about threatening her.

It had been about sending a message.

And as she climbed the steps to the department's front door, she realized something else—something that made her blood run cold. The man had known which car was hers. Had gotten in without leaving marks. Had known her schedule well enough to catch her alone.

Which meant he had help.

Someone in her own department was working with him.

And now, whether they knew it or not, they had Tommy's laptop—and whatever secrets it contained.