Page 30 of Silent Home (Sheila Stone #13)

The moment Sheila walked through the doors, Deputy Neville looked up from dispatch, relief crossing her face. "Sheriff! Are you alright?"

"Fine," Sheila said, trying to project calm authority despite her borrowed sweater and windblown hair. "Any word on my truck?"

"Nothing yet. We've got patrols looking, notified surrounding counties." Neville stood, looking a bit unsure of herself. "What exactly happened? Your call wasn't very detailed."

"Standard carjacking," Sheila said, moving toward her office. "Guy got the drop on me. It happens."

"To other people, maybe," Neville said. "Not to you."

Finn appeared in the doorway to the breakroom, coffee cup in hand. His expression was carefully neutral, but Sheila knew him well enough to read the tension in his jaw, the way his eyes tracked her movement. He'd know she was holding something back.

"I'll write up a full report," Sheila said, not meeting his gaze. "Right now, I need to check on something."

She made it to her office, closing the door behind her.

Her hands were steady as she sat at her desk, but inside she felt hollow, like someone had scooped out her insides and replaced them with ice.

The man's words kept echoing in her head: Your mother made choices.

Asked questions she shouldn't have asked.

A soft knock, then Finn entered, locking the door behind him. He closed the blinds without being asked, then sat in the chair across from her desk.

"Everyone's gone home except Neville," he said quietly. "Night shift is out on patrol. No one will disturb us." He leaned forward. "What really happened?"

Sheila took a shaky breath. "There was a man in my backseat. He'd gotten in—not sure how." She had to pause and steady herself. "He knew things, Finn. About my mother's murder. About Tommy."

Finn's face hardened. "What did he want?"

"To deliver a warning. He said to stop investigating the department, stop looking into my mother's case. Focus on the festival murders instead." Her voice caught slightly. "He threatened Dad. And Star."

"Tell me everything," Finn said. "Every detail."

She did, the words spilling out: the expensive cologne, the Irish accent, how he'd known about her childhood. How he'd talked about Natalie's suicide with such casual cruelty. How he'd made her walk into that dark field, knowing she was at his mercy.

As she spoke, Finn's expression grew darker. When she finished, he was silent for a long moment.

"He's been watching us, Finn," she finally said. "All of us, maybe."

"And now he's got your truck. Your weapons. Your phone."

"Those can be replaced." She met his eyes, then hesitated.

"What is it?" Finn asked.

It had just occurred to her that if her hijacker was connected to someone in the department, that same person might've bugged the building. They could be listening in right now.

Maybe watching, too. Which ruled out the easy method of scribbling a message to Finn on her notebook.

Finn was still studying her. She had to tell him something. Sensing he was about to repeat his question, she hurriedly said, "The important thing for now is to focus on the festival murders. That truck will turn up eventually, one way or another."

He was watching her intently. He could tell something was off, could tell she wasn't behaving naturally. Before he could say anything, however, Neville burst through the door. "Sheriff! They found your truck." Her face was both excited and grave.

"Just the vehicle?" Sheila asked anxiously. "Nobody in it?"

"That's right." Neville hesitated. "But whoever took it apparently didn't want you to get it back."

"What do you mean?"

"It's on fire."

***

Ten minutes later, they pulled up to a remote stretch of Caledonia Street, where orange flames lit up the predawn darkness. Sheila's truck burned like a beacon against the empty fields, sending sparks spiraling into the cold October sky. No fire trucks yet—they were still en route from the station.

Sheila's heart clenched like a fist at the sight of the flames. As soon as Finn parked the squad car, she opened her door and jumped out.

"Sheila, wait!" Finn called, but she barely heard him.

The heat hit her first—a wall of scorching air that made her eyes water. Then the smell: burning rubber, melting plastic, and beneath it all, the sharp tang of accelerant. This was no accident.

"Stay back," Finn said, catching her arm. "The gas tank could go any second."

But she'd already seen what she needed to see.

There, on the roof of the cab, placed where she couldn't miss it: Tommy's laptop, or what remained of it.

The plastic had melted and warped, the screen blackened beyond recognition.

Any evidence it might have contained about departmental corruption, about her mother's murder—gone.

And someone had clearly wanted her to know it was gone.

"Damn it," she whispered. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides.

"Is that what I think it is?" Finn asked quietly.

She nodded, watching sparks catch in the wind. "Tommy's laptop. So much for getting that warrant."

"You never took it out of your truck?"

She turned to him, suddenly feeling foolish and exposed. "I hid it in there—didn't think anyone would find it. How did anyone know I had it in the first place?"

The sound of distant sirens carried on the wind. The fire cast strange shadows across the empty fields, making ordinary things like fence posts and dead cornstalks look sinister and alive.

"How did they know?" she wondered aloud. "Did they bug my truck? How long have they been watching me?"

"You think he had help?" Finn asked. "Someone who knew where the laptop was?"

"Or someone was watching Tommy's apartment, and they decided to search my truck and got lucky." The words tasted bitter in her mouth. How had she been so careless?

The first fire truck arrived, its red lights mixing with the orange glow of the flames. Firefighters jumped out, unrolling hoses and shouting instructions. But Sheila knew it was too late—anything useful on that laptop was long gone.

"We should have seen this coming," she said. "After what happened to Tommy in his cell, we knew they had people on the inside."

"Hey." Finn touched her arm. "This isn't your fault. You were trying to protect evidence."

"By keeping it in my truck? That wasn't protecting evidence—that was arrogance. Thinking I could outsmart them." She watched as the firefighters began dousing the flames. "I did exactly what they wanted. Kept the laptop close, made it easy to find. And now..."

"And now we know something important," Finn finished. "We know they're scared. Whatever was on that laptop—they couldn't risk letting you decode it."

She turned to him, really looking at him for the first time since they'd arrived. His face was lined with exhaustion, but his eyes were sharp, focused.

"They're watching us," she said softly. "Right now, probably."

"Let them." His voice was equally quiet. "They just showed their hand. They're not invincible—they're running scared."

The flames were dying now under the firefighters' assault, sending up great clouds of steam in the cold air. Sheila watched as her truck—and the evidence it had contained—was reduced to a smoking shell.

But maybe Finn was right. Maybe this wasn't just about destroying evidence. Maybe it was about sending another message:

We can get to you anytime. Anywhere. Even when you think you're being careful.

The question was: What was she going to do about it?