Page 36 of Silent Home (Sheila Stone #13)

Four days after Morrison's arrest, Sheila stood in what remained of his editing studio, now thoroughly processed by CSU. The room felt smaller without all the equipment, but no less unsettling. Morning sunlight streamed through the windows, catching dust motes where camera rigs had once stood.

She turned slowly, taking in the scene. Hard drives and memory cards filled dozens of evidence boxes—Morrison had documented everything obsessively.

Not just the murders, but years of festival politics, backroom deals, promised roles that went to other actors.

It was all evidence, in his eyes, that these people were hacks who had no real appreciation for art, no sense of what acting was all about.

Which was why he'd set out to show them what acting ought to be—or his own twisted version, at any rate.

The festival itself would never be the same.

Carl Rider had resigned as director after the full scope of the corruption emerged.

The evidence on Morrison's hard drives went far beyond just the festival.

Years of meticulous documentation showed how roles were essentially auctioned off to the highest bidder, with talent a secondary consideration to financial connections.

Email threads revealed producers discussing which actors' families could provide the most funding.

Spreadsheets tracked "donations" that mysteriously preceded casting decisions.

More disturbing were the recordings of private conversations—studio executives candidly discussing how to keep talented but unconnected actors from questioning the system.

Morrison had captured it all, his cameras hidden in offices and green rooms across multiple venues.

Some of the biggest names in independent film appeared in his footage, their masks dropping as they discussed maintaining what they called "the natural order of things. "

"Listen to this," Finn said, playing one of Morrison's audio files.

A festival board member's voice filled the room: "Of course Sarah Martinez understood the role better.

That's not the point. We need someone bankable, someone whose family can help fund the next three productions.

Art is lovely, but art doesn't pay the bills. "

Sheila moved to another box of evidence, this one containing financial records.

"He tracked every deal, every compromise.

Going back years." She pulled out a folder labeled 'Winter Palace—Financing Structure.

' Inside were documents showing how Claire Montgomery's family had essentially purchased her role through a complex web of production investments.

"Jessica must have found some of this," Finn said. "That's what was in the envelope she was carrying."

"Which made her dangerous." Sheila spread more documents across the desk. "She wasn't just a rejected actor—she was a witness to systemic corruption. And Morrison..."

"Turned her into art," Finn finished grimly.

The fallout was spreading beyond Coldwater.

Three major studios had already suspended relationships with producers implicated in Morrison's evidence.

The Sundance Film Festival announced an emergency review of their selection processes.

Trade publications were running exposés about the "pay-to-play" culture Morrison had documented.

"Look at this," Sheila said, opening another file. "Bradley Greenwald knew about all of it. Morrison has footage of him explaining to investors how the system works—which roles are actually available versus which ones are already promised to people with connections."

"That's why Morrison targeted him for the final performance," Finn said. "He saw Greenwald as a gatekeeper of corruption."

Charlotte Davis had provided a formal statement about the costume records, detailing how certain actors would be fitted for roles before auditions even began.

Her documentation, combined with Morrison's surveillance, painted a picture of a system designed to maintain power in the hands of a select few while creating the illusion of artistic merit.

"The whole thing was theater," Sheila said quietly. "Just not the kind anyone wanted to admit."

Marcus Harlow had come forward too, describing how sound department records were routinely altered to hide late-night meetings between producers and wealthy investors.

Even Paul Wilson's legitimate surveillance system had inadvertently captured evidence of the corruption Morrison became obsessed with exposing.

"Here's what I don't understand," Finn said, studying another monitor. "Morrison had enough evidence to expose everything legally. Why resort to murder?"

"Because it wasn't ultimately about the corruption, not for Morrison.

" Sheila gestured at the carefully organized hard drives.

"He thought of himself as an artist, first and foremost, not a whistleblower.

In his mind, he was giving these people the roles they'd been denied, creating perfect moments—performances untainted by commerce or politics. "

She picked up Morrison's production notes. "Look how he describes each murder: 'Jessica's vulnerability finally achieving its pure form.' 'Thomas transcending artificial limitations.' 'Sarah's character work reaching its natural conclusion.'"

The festival's sponsors were rapidly withdrawing, their carefully crafted statements unable to hide their panic at being associated with such widespread corruption.

Local businesses that had depended on festival revenue were already feeling the impact.

The Coldwater Theater stood empty, its screens dark, its future uncertain.

"Morrison's confession mentions something called 'The Collection,'" Finn said, checking his notes. "But we haven't found it yet."

"Because it's not here." Sheila moved to the window, looking down at Main Street where workers were taking down festival banners. "He talked about a 'secure location' where he keeps his most important work. Somewhere even his studio cameras don't monitor."

"Another editing bay?"

"Maybe. Or maybe something else entirely." She turned back to the room full of evidence. "Whatever it is, it contains his original recordings. The ones he considered his true art."

A knock at the door interrupted them. Deputy Neville entered, looking troubled. "You need to see this," she said, handing Sheila a tablet. "Someone uploaded portions of Morrison's surveillance footage to multiple film industry websites. It's going viral."

The video showed a series of damning conversations—producers discussing payoffs, directors admitting to pre-arranged casting, investors laughing about keeping "outsiders" away from desirable roles.

Comments were flooding in from actors describing similar experiences, creating a tsunami of revelations that threatened to reshape independent film.

"Morrison's final performance," Sheila said quietly. "Even arrested, he found a way to expose everything. I guess he decided that if he couldn't go on creating art the way he wanted to, he might as well take down some of the people he despised and hated."

"The festival board is calling an emergency meeting," Neville said. "They're talking about permanent shutdown, complete restructuring."

Sheila nodded, but her mind was already moving to the implications. If Morrison had planned this level of exposure, what else had he arranged? What other revelations waited in his mysterious "Collection"?

Sheila moved to the window, looking down at Main Street, where festival crowds had thronged just days ago. "He didn't even see them as murders. In his mind, he was giving these actors their perfect moments, their ideal performances. The scenes they'd been denied by festival politics."

Finn moved to stand beside her at the window. "I talked to Paul Wilson this morning. He had no idea Morrison was accessing his surveillance system. Thought the glitches in his cameras were technical issues."

"Morrison's work with documentaries gave him the skills to hack Wilson's setup," Sheila said. "He used that access to study his victims, learn their routines. Then he'd stage each murder to recreate the scenes they'd originally auditioned for."

The October sunlight felt weak, doing little to warm the empty studio. Down on Main Street, workers were taking down the last of the festival banners. It would be a long time before Coldwater hosted another film festival—if ever.

A familiar truck pulled into a parking space below—her father's old Ford. Gabriel Stone climbed out, moving stiffly in the morning cold.

"Did you call him?" she asked Finn.

He shook his head. "But after what happened with your truck..." He left the sentence hanging.

The memory of the Irish-accented man in her backseat sent a chill through her that had nothing to do with the temperature. Her truck had been found burned, Tommy's laptop destroyed. Someone had known exactly what they were looking for.

She had downplayed the incident to her father, avoiding any reference to her investigation into departmental corruption, but she had little doubt her father had connected the two.

"I should talk to him," she said. "After everything that's happened..."

"You think it's safe?"

She thought about the man's warning, about his threats against her father and Star. "I don't know. But keeping him in the dark might be more dangerous."

They left Morrison's studio, locking it behind them. The Mountain View Hotel felt different now, knowing what had happened in its rooms and corridors. Knowing how Morrison had used its spaces to stage his performances.

They found Gabriel in the lobby, pretending to read a newspaper. He folded it away as they approached.

"Thought I'd find you here," he said. His voice was casual, but his eyes were sharp. "Heard you caught the festival killer."

"James Morrison," she said. "Cinematographer with a twisted artistic vision."

Gabriel nodded slowly. "And your truck? Any leads on who torched it?"