Page 32 of Silent Home (Sheila Stone #13)

They pulled up to the Elysian Arts Cinema ten minutes later. The building's facade was undergoing renovation, scaffolding creating a maze of metal pipes and wooden platforms that reached to the third floor. A construction crew worked near the entrance, making it impossible to slip in quietly.

"Can we access the studio from the back?" Sheila asked.

"There's a fire escape," Finn said, "but it's visible from the street. If Thorne sees us coming, there's no telling how he might react."

They circled the block, looking for options. A delivery truck blocked the alley behind the building, its driver arguing with someone about where to unload cases of concession supplies that should have been delivered during the festival.

When they finally made it to the building's rear entrance, they found it locked. Through the windows, they could see renovation debris scattered across the lobby floor—sawdust, drop cloths, tools. The construction noise from outside made it impossible to hear if anyone was moving around upstairs.

"We could call for backup," Finn suggested. "Get people watching all the exits."

Sheila shook her head. "We can't risk spooking him. If he's taken another victim, the sight of police might cause him to kill her on the spot." She studied the fire escape. "There has to be a way..."

A door opened above them. They pressed back against the wall as someone emerged onto the fire escape—but it was just a construction worker having a cigarette. He nodded to them absently, apparently assuming they were with the renovation crew.

"Excuse me," Sheila said, showing her badge. "We need to access the third-floor studio. For the investigation."

The worker shrugged. "Good luck with that. Power's out up there—they're rewiring the whole building. Some kind of electrical issue this morning."

Sheila felt her stomach tighten. "When did this happen?"

"Couple hours ago. The photographer guy was pretty upset about it. Said he had important work to do."

"Is he still up there?"

"Haven't seen him leave." The worker stubbed out his cigarette. "But there's a lot of ways in and out with all this scaffolding."

They thanked him and moved back to the alley entrance. A crash from above made them both look up. Through a third-floor window, they caught a glimpse of movement—someone disconnecting equipment, working by flashlight.

"Back door's too obvious," Sheila said. "He'll be watching it. We need another way up."

They circled the building again. The scaffolding created a complex grid of potential access points, but climbing it would leave them exposed. The construction crew had mostly moved inside, their tools and materials abandoned while they dealt with the power issue.

"There," Finn said suddenly. "Service elevator."

A construction lift ran up the side of the building, currently holding painting supplies. It would be slow and noisy, but it might be their best option.

Before they could decide how to proceed, movement caught her eye—a figure on the scaffolding above, moving with practiced ease through the metal framework. Even from this distance, she could see he carried something bulky—probably a camera bag or hard drives.

"There," she said. "Northeast corner."

But as they watched, Thorne disappeared into a maze of wooden platforms and tarps. The renovation had created dozens of hiding places, multiple escape routes.

"We need to split up," Finn said. "Cover more ground."

Sheila nodded reluctantly. "You take the fire escape. I'll try the service elevator. But Finn?" She caught his arm. "Be careful."

"You're the one whose truck was just hijacked," he said.

"We'll both be careful, then."

They separated, each moving toward their chosen access point. Sheila reached the construction lift and hit the call button. Nothing happened.

"Power's out, remember?" a nearby worker called helpfully.

Of course. The power outage would affect the exterior lift too. She looked up at the scaffolding, mentally plotting a route. It wouldn't be comfortable, but she'd done worse during her kickboxing days.

A flash of movement above—someone crossing between buildings on a wooden platform. She caught a glimpse of camera equipment, a black bag that could hold hard drives or evidence.

Or weapons.

Sheila grabbed the scaffolding and began to climb.

The metal pipes were cold against Sheila's hands, years of kickboxing training making her movements efficient despite her exhaustion. Construction debris made each step treacherous—loose boards, coils of wire, abandoned tools that could shift under her weight.

Fifteen feet up, she paused to catch her breath behind a stack of plywood.

The scaffolding created a three-dimensional maze, platforms intersecting at odd angles, tarps billowing in the morning wind.

Somewhere above, Thorne was moving through this artificial forest of metal and wood.

She could hear footsteps, but the sound echoed strangely off the building's facade, making it impossible to pinpoint his location.

Her radio crackled softly—Finn, keeping her updated on his position. "No sign of him on the fire escape. But there's equipment scattered everywhere up here. Looks like he left in a hurry."

"Copy that," she whispered. "Stay alert. He knows this layout better than we do."

She continued climbing, staying close to the building's wall where the scaffolding was most stable. At the second floor, she found more evidence of Thorne's hasty departure—a camera lens dropped near an equipment case, cables tangled around a support beam.

A door slammed somewhere above. Sheila froze, listening. Then came the distinct sound of someone moving across wooden planks, heading east toward the adjacent building's roof.

"Finn," she said into her radio. "He's moving between buildings. East side."

"Copy. But Sheila—there's a gap there. A good fifteen feet between structures."

She reached the third floor platform and saw what he meant.

A makeshift bridge of wooden planks spanned the alley between buildings, secured with what looked like hastily tied rope.

Beyond it, the flat roof of the neighboring furniture store offered multiple escape routes—fire escapes, utility access, even another set of scaffolding where that building was also under renovation.

Movement caught her eye—Thorne was already halfway across the makeshift bridge, a heavy bag slung over his shoulder. He moved with surprising grace for someone carrying equipment, clearly familiar with this improvised path.

"Stop! Police!" she called out, knowing he wouldn't but required to make the announcement.

Thorne glanced back. Even from this distance, she could see the camera hanging around his neck, could imagine him documenting everything, turning even this pursuit into a performance.

She started across the wooden planks. They shifted under her weight, the rope creaking ominously. Below, the alley waited, three stories of empty air between her and the pavement.

"Careful," Finn's voice crackled through her radio. "That rigging doesn't look stable."

Thorne had reached the other side. Instead of running, though, he turned to watch her crossing. The camera came up to his eye—was he filming this? Creating another scene for his collection?

The planks swayed with each step. Halfway across, she heard a snap—one of the ropes giving way. The bridge tilted sharply, and she had to grab a support cable to keep her balance.

"Sheila!" Finn's voice carried from somewhere behind her.

She looked back to see him emerging onto the platform she'd just left. But she was committed now—going back would be as dangerous as going forward. She took another careful step, feeling the boards shift beneath her.

Through his camera lens, Thorne watched her progress with an artist's intensity. Did he hope she'd fall? Was this moment of suspense just another scene in his twisted production?

The next step was met with an ominous cracking sound. The remaining ropes were straining, the wood beginning to splinter. She was still eight feet from safety, too far to jump.

She heard Finn shout something behind her, but her focus narrowed to the fraying rope, the splintering wood. Time seemed to slow. If she moved quickly enough...

The bridge gave way just as she launched herself forward. For a sickening moment she was airborne, the alley yawning beneath her. Then, her hands caught the edge of the furniture store's roof. Her body slammed against the brick wall, driving the air from her lungs.

Thorne stood a few feet away, still filming. But in that moment of distraction, he failed to notice Finn had found another route—through the furniture store itself. The roof access door burst open behind Thorne.

"Drop the camera," Finn ordered, weapon drawn. "Hands where I can see them."

As Sheila pulled herself onto the roof, she saw something unexpected cross Thorne's face—not fear or anger, but relief.

"Careful with the bag," he said as she cuffed him. "The evidence is fragile."

"Evidence?" she asked.

"Why do you think I've been documenting everything?" His voice was quiet, almost sad. "Someone had to preserve the truth."

They led him down through the furniture store, where a very confused manager was trying to understand why police had just run through his business. Outside, backup units were arriving, lights flashing in the morning sun.

"I think," Thorne said as they reached the ground, "we need to have a very long conversation about what I've been filming these past few weeks."