Page 3 of Silent Home (Sheila Stone #13)

The festival had transformed Main Street into something from another world.

Food trucks lined the curbs, their generators humming beneath the morning bustle.

The smell of fresh-ground coffee mingled with woodsmoke from a nearby BBQ vendor, and somewhere a street musician played jazz on a saxophone, the notes drifting through the crisp October air.

Sheila pulled into the back lot of the Coldwater Theater, where three patrol cars were already parked in a loose semi-circle around the emergency exit. The sight of them—their light bars still flashing silently in the early morning sun—made her stomach tighten.

Another death. Another family that would need answers.

As she climbed out of her truck, she spotted Finn crouched near the exit door, studying something on the ground.

Even from here, she could read the tension in his shoulders, the careful way he shifted his weight to favor his recently healed injury.

He'd taken that bullet when she could just as easily have been the one to get shot, and though he never mentioned it, she knew it still bothered him on cold mornings like this one.

"Find something?" she called.

He looked up, and despite the grim circumstances, his face softened at the sight of her.

It was one of the things she loved about him—how his guard dropped, just for a moment, whenever she appeared.

His hazel eyes caught the morning light, and his sandy hair was slightly mussed, which she found endlessly endearing.

"Just trying to figure out these prints," he said, standing. His tall frame unfolded, his posture ramrod straight—a remnant of his fighter pilot days. "But there are too many of them overlapping each other. Can't tell which ones are recent."

She joined him at the door, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with coffee. This close, she could see the shadows under his eyes. "You haven't slept."

"That's what happens when you have back-to-back homicide investigations. Besides, you don't look much better—well, except that you're a lot prettier."

She humored him with a smile.

"Star asked about you this morning," he continued. "Said to remind you about her art show next week."

The mention of their ward brought a smile to Sheila's face. Star had come so far from the angry, defensive fourteen-year-old they'd taken in. Now she was thriving in her photography classes, even teaching Finn how to use his old DSLR camera properly.

Sheila felt proud of Star—and proud of herself and Finn for the home they'd created for Star, too.

"I haven't forgotten," she said. "I was actually hoping to see what she's been up to later this evening, but after this..." She gestured at the theater.

Finn nodded, understanding. "I told her we might be working late. She said she'd stay at your dad's if needed."

The door creaked as Finn pulled it open, revealing a dimly lit service corridor. The air felt thick with dust and the musty smell of old carpet.

"Victim's Jessica Gregory, twenty-four," Finn said as they walked.

"Local actress, worked concessions here during the festival.

Chad Miller—he's the projectionist—found her about an hour ago when he came to check the sound system.

Apparently they've been having technical difficulties with this theater, so it's been closed since yesterday afternoon. "

"Locked?"

Finn nodded. "Chad says he locked up yesterday. The doors were still locked when he came by about an hour ago."

"Could someone have locked it without a key?" Sheila asked.

"Not unless they stayed inside. And the place has been thoroughly checked."

They emerged into Theater Seven, where the scene before them made Sheila stop short. The movie screen glowed with soft white light, illuminating the stage area below. And there, positioned with theatrical precision, was Jessica Gregory.

The young woman sat in an ornate chair that must have been borrowed from one of the festival's prop departments.

Her hands were folded delicately in her lap, her head tilted as if listening to something only she could hear.

She wore a blue vintage dress that seemed to shimmer in the light, its fabric spreading around her like a pool of water.

If not for the ligature marks on her neck, she might have been merely resting between scenes.

"Shit," Sheila breathed.

"Yeah." Finn's voice was tight. "Killer arranged everything. The dress, the chair, the lighting—even her hair and makeup appear to have been done post-mortem."

Dr. Jin Zihao, the county coroner, looked up from where he knelt beside the body.

His silver-streaked black hair caught the light as he gestured them over.

"Preliminary time of death between eight and ten PM last night," he said.

"Strangulation with some kind of thin cord or wire. No defensive wounds visible."

"Maybe she knew her killer?" Sheila asked.

"Or never saw them coming," Finn suggested.

A man in an expensive sweater and wire-rimmed glasses hurried down the aisle toward them, his face pinched with worry. "Sheriff Stone? I'm Carl Rider, festival organizer. This is... I mean, we've never had anything like this happen before."

Sheila studied him. Mid-fifties, meticulously groomed, with the harried look of someone juggling too many responsibilities. "Tell me about Jessica Gregory," she said.

"Wonderful girl. Very professional, very dedicated. She worked concessions, but really..." He sighed. "She was an actress. Had been auditioning for local productions, trying to break into independent films. Several directors here had noticed her."

"Any particular directors?" Finn asked.

"Bradley Greenwald took an interest. He's premiering his new documentary tonight—or was supposed to." Rider wrung his hands. "Sheriff, I know this looks bad, but we can't shut down. Not yet."

"Carl, someone was murdered."

"I understand that, but this festival...

" He glanced around nervously before lowering his voice.

"The hotels are full. The restaurants are packed.

These four days keep some of our merchants in business through the winter.

If we shut down now..." He spread his hands helplessly.

"Half of Main Street was counting on this income. "

"And I'm counting on keeping people alive," Sheila said. "Economic impact or not, I won't risk another victim. We need to clear the theaters, get everyone out before word spreads and we have panic on our hands."

"What about containing it? Extra security, restricted access to certain areas—"

"Someone got past whatever security we already had," Sheila said. "No. I won't gamble with people's lives. Not even to save the festival. I want it shut down."

Rider slumped, but he didn't argue further. Just then, Sheila caught movement in her peripheral vision as Finn moved closer to the stage. "The pose," he said quietly. "It means something. This wasn't random."

Sheila joined him, noticing what he meant. Everything about the scene felt deliberate and choreographed. The angle of Jessica's head, the way her hands lay in her lap, even the fall of her hair across one shoulder—it all spoke of careful arrangement.

"Like a scene from a play," she murmured.

"Or a movie," Finn added.

Above them, the projection booth's window stood dark and empty, a black eye watching over the theater. Sheila thought of Tommy's laptop, still hidden in her truck. One mystery at a time, she told herself.

"Mr. Rider," she said, "I need a list of everyone with access to this theater, including maintenance staff, projectionists, anyone who might have a key."

"Of course." Rider dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief. "Perhaps we should discuss this somewhere more private? The lobby café is closed for the investigation, but my temporary office is just down the hall."

Sheila glanced at Jin, who nodded. "We'll be at least another hour here," he said.

Sheila turned to Rider. "Lead the way."

The festival office turned out to be a converted storage room, though Rider had done his best to make it presentable.

Festival posters from previous years lined the walls—ten years of independent films celebrated in the heart of Utah.

A desk fashioned from two sawhorses and an old door dominated the space, covered in scheduling grids, vendor contracts, and what looked like hundreds of business cards.

"Coffee?" Rider offered, gesturing to a fancy espresso machine that seemed out of place among the improvised furniture. "It's Italian. One of our sponsors insisted we have decent coffee, at least in the office."

"Please," Finn said, while Sheila shook her head.

As Rider fussed with the machine, its grinding and hissing filling the small space, Sheila studied him more closely.

His sweater was cashmere, his shoes Italian leather, but there was something performative about the display of wealth.

Like he was playing a role, he thought a festival director should play.

"This must be difficult for you," she said. "Running a festival this size, and now this."

"Ten years," he said, handing Finn a cup of espresso. "Ten years we've built this festival from nothing, and now..." He sank into his chair, suddenly looking older. "Jessica was more than just staff. She was part of our little family here."

"Tell us about her," Finn said, leaning against a filing cabinet. "Everything you know."

Rider removed his glasses, cleaning them with his handkerchief. "She started working concessions last year. But she was an actress at heart—always practicing lines between customers, discussing technique with the directors who came through. She had such drive, such passion."

"Any conflicts with other staff members?" Sheila asked. "Or maybe rejection from a particular director?"

"No, nothing like that. Jessica was universally liked. Though..." He hesitated.

"Though what?"