Page 31 of Silent Home (Sheila Stone #13)

The morning sun slanted through the station windows, catching dust motes as they drifted through the air.

Sheila leaned closer to her monitor, fighting exhaustion as she clicked through another surveillance clip from Paul Wilson's archive.

Beside her, Finn held a fresh cup of coffee but hadn't touched it, his eyes fixed on the screen.

The loss of her truck—and, more importantly, Tommy's laptop—gnawed at her.

She'd spent the rest of the night updating security protocols, changing passwords, having Neville start the paperwork for replacement weapons.

But no amount of bureaucratic busywork could erase the feeling of violation, of being watched and manipulated.

The Irish-accented man had known exactly what he was looking for, had staged the whole thing to destroy evidence that might have exposed departmental corruption.

She wanted to dive deeper into that mystery, to chase down every lead about her mother's murder.

But his warning about Star and her father still chilled her.

He'd made it clear—pursue that investigation, and people would die.

For now, she had to pivot back to the festival murders, had to trust that solving them might somehow lead to answers about the larger conspiracy.

She'd insisted on coming straight back to work despite Finn's concerns about her getting rest. Sleep wasn't an option, not with killers walking free.

Better to lose herself in Wilson's surveillance footage, in the immediate puzzle of staged deaths and theatrical murders.

At least that was something concrete she could pursue without putting her loved ones at risk.

"Stop," Finn said suddenly, interrupting her thoughts. "Go back about thirty seconds."

Sheila rewound the footage. The timestamp showed two weeks ago, just after midnight. The camera angle showed the main hallway of the Coldwater Theater, the wall of production posters casting long shadows in the dim emergency lighting.

Charlotte Davis appeared in frame, walking quickly, her arms full of costume paperwork.

She looked over her shoulder, then stopped abruptly as someone off-camera spoke to her.

The sound was muffled by distance, but Charlotte's body language changed instantly—shoulders tensing, taking a half-step backward.

"Look at her hands," Finn said quietly.

Sheila leaned closer. Charlotte's fingers were clenched around her papers so tightly they shook. Whatever the unseen person was saying, it frightened her.

"Can we get any other angles?" Finn asked.

"Wilson had cameras everywhere. Let me check..." Sheila switched feeds, cycling through different views of the hallway. But the other person remained stubbornly out of frame, as if they knew exactly where the blind spots were.

The footage continued. Charlotte shook her head emphatically at whatever was being said. Her voice carried faintly: "...can't just take those records. There are protocols..."

The rest was lost as a heating vent kicked on. But something about the exchange nagged at Sheila.

"This was right around when Jessica started asking questions," she said. "When she began looking into technical aspects of the productions."

Finn finally picked up his coffee, but just held it, thinking. "You know what bothers me? Wilson documented everything. Every performance, every interaction. So why wouldn't he have footage of whoever Charlotte was talking to?"

"Unless..." Sheila sat back, realization dawning on her. "Unless someone had access to his archives. Someone who could remove footage they didn't want found."

She reached for her phone, then stopped. Some conversations were better to have in person.

She stood. "Come on. We need to talk to Charlotte."

They found her in the costume department, sorting through racks of vintage clothing.

Though the festival had been shut down, the costumes and props had to be inventoried and returned to various lending companies and theater groups across the state—specialized pieces worth thousands of dollars that couldn't simply be abandoned when the festival ended abruptly.

The heavy wooden table where Charlotte worked was covered with fabric swatches and careful notes about measurements and alterations. She looked up as they entered, her hands stilling on a blue dress that looked painfully similar to the one Jessica Gregory had died in.

"Sheriff Stone," she said, her voice carefully neutral. "What can I help you with?"

"We need to talk about what happened two weeks ago," Sheila said. "In the theater hallway, after midnight."

Charlotte's fingers tightened on the dress. "I don't know what you mean."

"We have footage," Finn said gently. "Someone confronted you about costume records. Someone who scared you."

"I can't..." Charlotte glanced at the door, then lowered her voice. "You don't understand. There are people watching. Important people."

"We know about being watched," Sheila said quietly. She moved closer, keeping her voice low. "Charlotte, three people are dead. Three people whose measurements and sizing details were in those records. This isn't just about costumes anymore."

Charlotte was silent for a long moment, her hands moving restlessly over the fabric before her. Finally, she said, "It wasn't the first time."

"What wasn't?"

"Someone going through my records. I'd noticed things moved, files accessed after hours. But that night..." She swallowed hard. "That night, I caught them in the act."

"Who was it?" Finn asked.

"I don't know. It was dark, and they stayed in the shadows.

But they knew things—about the productions, about the costumes.

Technical details most people wouldn't care about.

" She began straightening papers on her table, her movements sharp with anxiety.

"They said they were doing inventory. But they were focused on specific performers. Jessica. Thomas. Sarah."

Sheila exchanged looks with Finn. "What exactly were they looking at?"

"Measurements. Sizing details. Notes about how costumes had been altered for specific scenes." Charlotte's voice dropped even lower. "The kind of information you'd need if you wanted to recreate those costumes exactly."

"Did you tell anyone?" Finn asked.

"Who would I tell? The festival board? They barely notice the costume department exists unless something goes wrong." She gestured at the racks of clothing around them. "Do you know how many people have access to this place? Directors, producers, technical staff—anyone could have a key."

"But not everyone would know which costumes to look for," Sheila said. "Not everyone would understand the significance of specific scenes."

Charlotte was quiet for a moment, then said, "There's something else. Something I haven't told anyone." She moved to a filing cabinet and pulled out a folder. "After that night, I started keeping track. Making notes about when things were moved, what files were accessed."

She handed the folder to Sheila. Inside were careful notes about dates, times, which records had been disturbed. But more importantly, there were photographs—grainy security camera stills showing someone in the costume department after hours.

"I set up my own camera," Charlotte explained. "Just a cheap motion-sensor thing from the hardware store. The quality isn't great, but..."

Sheila studied the photos. The figure was always partly in shadow, always careful about angles. But in one image, there was a clear view of their hand on a file cabinet—a hand wearing an expensive-looking watch.

"These are from different nights," Finn said, looking over her shoulder. "They came back multiple times."

"Planning," Sheila said grimly. "They needed everything to be perfect. The costumes, the poses, the scenes..." She looked up at Charlotte. "Why didn't you come forward with this sooner?"

"Because the night after I put up the camera, someone broke into my apartment." Charlotte wrapped her arms around herself. "Nothing was taken. But things were moved, just slightly. Like they wanted me to know they could get in any time they wanted."

"Shit," Finn muttered.

"And then Jessica died." Charlotte's voice cracked slightly. "In that blue dress from 'The Winter Palace.' The one whose measurements had been accessed multiple times. I knew then that it wasn't just about costumes. But I was afraid... I am afraid..."

"We can protect you," Sheila said.

"Can you?" Charlotte met her eyes. "Like you protected Jessica? Or Sarah? Or Thomas?"

The words hit hard, but Sheila couldn't argue. Not when she'd failed to protect those victims. Not when her own truck had been torched just hours ago, as if to underscore how little control she really had.

"The person in the hallway that night," Finn said. "Could you tell anything about them? Height? Build?"

"Tall," Charlotte said. "Well-dressed—I remember thinking the suit looked expensive. Beyond that…" She shrugged.

"Male or female?" Sheila asked.

"I think male, from the build. But they stayed in the shadows.

" Charlotte moved to straighten a rack of costumes, her hands trembling slightly.

"What bothered me most was how they knew exactly what they were looking for.

They had the production numbers memorized, knew which shows each costume was from. That's not common knowledge."

"Someone involved in the productions," Finn said.

"But not just as crew," Sheila added. "Someone who understood the significance of specific scenes. The dramatic moments they wanted to recreate."

Charlotte pulled out her notebook again, flipping through pages. "They were especially interested in pivotal scenes—emotional high points, dramatic confrontations. The kind of moments actors dream about performing."

"We need to look at everyone involved in these productions," Sheila said. "Not just technical crew. Directors, acting coaches, anyone who would understand both the technical and performance aspects."

"That's a long list," Finn warned. "The festival brings in dozens of industry professionals."

"Then we better get started." Sheila turned back to Charlotte. "Make copies of those notes—physical copies, nothing digital. And Charlotte? Be careful who you talk to about this."

They left the costume department, the smell of mothballs and old fabric following them into the hallway. The theater felt different now, more sinister. Every shadow could hide a watcher, every security camera could be compromised.

They reached the lobby, where morning sunlight streamed through the high windows, creating pools of light on the worn carpet. A janitor was sweeping up discarded festival programs, the soft swish of his broom the only sound in the empty building.

"We need to reexamine all the evidence," Sheila said. "Not just as crime scenes, but as performances. What was the killer trying to show us?"

Finn pulled out his notebook. "The auditions would be key. That's where they first saw these interpretations they're trying to recreate."

"Wilson said they record everything during festival auditions," Sheila said, thinking it through. "Who handles that? There must be someone documenting all these performances."

They headed back to Rider's office. He was still there despite the festival shutdown, surrounded by boxes of materials being packed away. Dark circles under his eyes suggested he hadn't slept much either.

"The audition recordings," Sheila said without preamble. "Who's responsible for filming them?"

Rider rubbed his eyes beneath his wire-rimmed glasses.

"Paul Wilson handles all our technical equipment and archival documentation, but for the actual production filming and behind-the-scenes content.

.." He dug through a stack of papers. "That would be Andrew Thorne.

He's been our primary videographer for what, three years now?

Works closely with Paul on all the festival productions. "

"Would he have access to the theaters after hours?" Finn asked.

"Of course. He's always working late, getting atmospheric shots of the empty theaters, that kind of thing.

" Rider paused. "Come to think of it, he's particularly interested in performance.

Always talking about capturing the perfect moment, the height of emotion.

Some of the actors found him... intense. "

"Intense how?" Sheila asked.

"He'd film them without their knowledge sometimes. Said he was documenting the creative process, catching genuine moments. We had a few complaints, but his work was exceptional, so..." Rider spread his hands helplessly.

"Where would he keep his footage?" Sheila asked.

"He has a studio above the Elysian Arts Cinema. The festival rents it for him year-round. He's probably there now, actually. Said something about preserving important festival moments despite the shutdown."

Sheila and Finn exchanged looks. A photographer obsessed with capturing perfect moments. Someone with technical knowledge, access to the theaters, and an intimate understanding of performance.

"We need to talk to him," Sheila said.

But as they headed for the door, Rider called after them: "Sheriff?

There's something else. About Thorne." He hesitated.

"He applied to direct a few years back. Had this psychological thriller script about a photographer documenting people's final moments.

The festival board thought it was too disturbing. He didn't take the rejection well."

Sheila felt the pieces starting to click into place. "Thank you, Carl. That's very helpful."

Outside, the morning had warmed considerably, but Sheila felt a chill as she thought about someone watching through a camera lens, documenting everything, waiting for the perfect moment to create their own twisted scenes.

"The Elysian isn't far," Finn said. "Want to pay Mr. Thorne a visit?"

Sheila nodded, already heading for their car. They had a new suspect—someone who understood both the technical and artistic elements of performance. Someone who might be documenting their own grotesque masterpiece, one murder at a time.