Page 34 of Silent Home (Sheila Stone #13)

The editing studio above the Mountain View Hotel was dark when they arrived, but Sheila could see a faint glow from beneath the door—the kind of light given off by editing monitors. CSU was still ten minutes out, having taken a circuitous route to avoid drawing attention.

"Greenwald's not answering his phone," Finn said quietly. "Hotel staff says he checked out an hour ago, but his car's still in the parking lot."

Sheila studied the door. No sound from within, but her instincts told her Morrison was in there. Probably editing his latest work, his "Final Performance" with Greenwald.

"Back entrance?" Finn suggested.

She shook her head. "He'll have cameras covering all approaches. That's his signature—multiple angles, everything documented."

As if to confirm her theory, she spotted a tiny lens in the hallway's smoke detector, positioned for a perfect view of anyone approaching the studio. Morrison would already know they were here.

"We can't wait for CSU," she said. "If he's in there with Greenwald..."

A muffled sound carried through the door—something falling, or being knocked over. Then, very faintly, the mechanical whir of a camera lens adjusting.

He was filming.

Sheila drew her weapon and moved to one side of the door, Finn taking position on the other. From inside came another sound—a voice, too muffled to make out words but with the distinctive cadence of someone delivering lines.

Their radios crackled softly—Neville confirming CSU was eight minutes out. Too long to wait if Morrison was already filming his "final performance."

Sheila met Finn's eyes and nodded. In one smooth movement, he kicked the door open.

The studio was a maze of equipment—editing stations, cameras on tripods, lights positioned to eliminate any shadows. But what caught Sheila's attention was the elaborate camera rig in the center of the room, currently focused on Bradley Greenwald.

The director sat in what looked like an antique theater chair, his hands bound to the armrests with gaffer's wire. More wire circled his throat—not tight enough to strangle, not yet. Morrison stood behind him, adjusting a light with one hand while the other held a remote camera trigger.

There was a watch on his wrist—a very expensive watch, by the look of it. Just like the one in Charlotte's photo.

"Perfect timing," Morrison said without looking up from his work. His voice was surprisingly gentle. "I was hoping for witnesses. This is, after all, my final act. And what's a performance without an audience?"

"Step away from him," Sheila ordered, her weapon trained on Morrison's chest.

"In a moment." He made a minor adjustment to the light. "This scene requires precise composition. You understand, of course. You've been studying my work."

Greenwald's eyes were wide with fear, but he didn't struggle. The wire around his neck ensured his cooperation.

"The other murders," Sheila said, moving slowly into the room. "You filmed all of them."

"Murders?" Morrison smiled slightly. "No, you misunderstand.

I created moments. Perfect, pure performances.

" He gestured at his editing station, where multiple screens showed footage from previous scenes—Jessica in the blue dress, Thomas posed in the hotel corridor, Sarah arranged like her character's final moment.

"Each one exactly as it should have been.

Each actor finally achieving their true potential. "

"By killing them?" Finn asked. He was moving to flank Morrison, but the killer seemed unconcerned.

"Death is the ultimate performance," Morrison said. "The moment when pretense falls away, when we see the truth of a character." He adjusted another light. "That's what I've been documenting. The perfect synthesis of actor and role."

"Like Jessica Gregory?" Sheila kept her weapon trained on Morrison while trying to analyze the room's layout. Besides the main editing station, there were at least three other camera setups running, documenting this confrontation from multiple angles. "What truth did you see in her performance?"

"Ah, Jessica." Morrison's hands moved with practiced grace as he adjusted another light.

"She understood vulnerability. That moment in 'The Winter Palace' when her character accepts her fate—she brought such raw honesty to it.

But the producers wanted someone with more 'festival recognition.

'" His lip curled slightly. "As if that matters to true art. "

"So you killed her? Because she lost a role?"

"I immortalized her." Morrison finally looked up from his work, meeting Sheila's eyes.

"She was carrying evidence of the festival's corruption—all those backroom deals, all that talent wasted because of politics.

She thought exposing it would change things.

" He shook his head. "She didn't understand that the system itself is broken.

That only through perfect performance can we transcend these petty limitations. "

Greenwald made a muffled sound, trying to speak through what must be a gag. Morrison touched his shoulder almost tenderly.

"Bradley here understands now, don't you?" He tightened the wire slightly, making Greenwald go very still. "All those compromises, all those commercial decisions—they destroy true art. But tonight..." He smiled. "Tonight we create something pure."

"By strangling him on camera?" Finn had managed to work his way around to the far side of the room, but Morrison still seemed unconcerned about being flanked.

"By capturing the moment, he finally understands." Morrison's free hand moved to a control panel. "When pretense falls away, when the mask cracks—that's what I've been documenting all along. The instant when performance becomes a reality."

Sheila noticed something about the camera setups—they were positioned to cover every angle of the room, including the doorway where she and Finn had entered. Their own reactions were being recorded, integrated into Morrison's grotesque production.

"The envelope Jessica was carrying," she said, trying to keep him talking while she looked for an opening. "What was in it?"

"Financial records. Emails. Proof of how festivals really work—how roles are bought and sold, how true talent is ignored in favor of marketable names." Morrison's voice took on a lecturer's tone. "She thought exposing it would change things. I showed her a better way. A purer form of protest."

"Through murder."

"Through transformation." He gestured at his monitors.

"Watch their faces in the final moments.

The perfect synthesis of actor and role.

Jessica became her character completely.

Thomas lived his convict's redemption. Sarah transcended into her mad scene.

" His eyes took on a fervent gleam. "And Bradley here—he's going to show us the ultimate transformation.

The moment a compromised artist finally understands the cost of betraying true vision. "

The wire around Greenwald's neck tightened another fraction. The director's eyes were wide with terror, but also something else—recognition. He was finally understanding what Morrison had been trying to tell him all along.

"You don't have to do this," Sheila said. "We can talk about the festival's problems, expose the corruption—"

"Talk?" Morrison laughed softly. "That's what Charlotte said, you know.

When she found me going through the costume records.

She wanted to report it, start an investigation.

She didn't understand that investigation isn't enough.

Documentation isn't enough." He touched a control, and one of the monitors showed Charlotte's confrontation in the hallway.

"Only through perfect performance can we make people see the truth. "

"Those costume records," Sheila said, still looking for an opening. "You weren't just studying measurements. You were tracking which roles had been promised to whom, which actors had been passed over for political reasons."

"Every production leaves a paper trail." Morrison adjusted another camera angle with his free hand. "Measurements, alterations, costume fittings scheduled before official casting announcements—it all tells a story. About who really earned the roles, and who bought their way in."

He touched a control, and another monitor flickered to life. Security footage showed Jessica in the costume department late at night, going through the same records Morrison had studied.

"She was getting close," he said softly.

"Finding the same patterns I had. But she thought a lawsuit would fix things.

Thought exposing the corruption would change the system.

" The wire tightened again, making Greenwald whimper.

"She didn't understand that the system itself is the corruption.

That only through perfect performance can we achieve truth. "

Sheila saw Finn reaching a position where he might have a clean shot, but the gaffer's wire around Greenwald's throat seemed to give Finn pause. One reflexive movement from Morrison and the director would die before they could reach him.

"You staged each murder to recreate their best performances," she said, keeping Morrison's attention on her. "The scenes they were denied."

"I gave them immortality." Morrison's eyes took on that feverish gleam again. "Jessica's vulnerability, Thomas's redemption, Sarah's descent into madness—now they'll be remembered exactly as they should be. Their perfect moments, preserved forever."

"And Greenwald?" Finn asked. "What perfect moment are you creating with him?"

"The moment of understanding." Morrison's hand moved to Greenwald's shoulder again.

"When a compromised artist finally sees how far he's fallen.

How many true performances he's denied." He adjusted a camera with his free hand.

"The exact instant when he realizes that every decision to cast for politics instead of talent, every choice to favor marketability over art—it all led to this moment. "