Page 6 of Silent Home (Sheila Stone #13)

Sheila found Finn at one of the food trucks—a converted Airstream trailer specializing in Korean fusion tacos.

He'd already claimed one of the picnic tables scattered along Main Street, a spread of food laid out before him.

The October sun caught his sandy hair as he looked up, offering a tired smile.

"Thought you might be hungry," he said, pushing a container toward her. "Kimchi fries. The guy says they're his specialty."

Sheila sat, grateful for both the food and the moment of normalcy.

Around them, the festival was in full swing, the crowd seemingly unaware of the tragedy in Theater Seven.

Film students with expensive cameras captured b-roll of the event.

A group of indie rockers did a sound check on the street stage.

A man adjusted a professional camera rig, taking in the festivities with a trained eye.

The air smelled of food truck exhaust, fresh coffee, and woodsmoke from someone grilling Korean short ribs.

There were no signs at all that the festival would soon be shut down. Still, Sheila wasn't entirely surprised. It would take time for Rider to talk to the right people, decide what message they were going to send. Sheila didn't feel the need to intervene. Yet.

"Tell me about Mara," she said to Finn as she picked up a fork.

Finn's expression sobered. "She was working the morning shift at Owl Street.

Place was packed—apparently half the festival crowd thinks it's the only decent coffee shop in town.

" He took a bite of his taco, gathering his thoughts.

"When I told her about Jessica... I've done death notifications before, but this was different. She just... crumpled."

"They were close?"

"Used to be. Grew up together, did community theater, shared the same dreams." He wiped sauce from his chin. "Mara said they'd been drifting apart lately, especially after 'The Winter Palace.'"

A pair of film critics walked past their table, arguing passionately about aspect ratios and color grading. Somewhere nearby, someone was giving an interview, their voice carrying over the crowd: "This festival represents the future of independent cinema..."

"Charlotte mentioned that film," Sheila said. "Said Jessica took the rejection hard."

"According to Mara, it was more complicated than that. Jessica felt betrayed." Finn lowered his voice. "She thought she had the role locked down. Someone had implied she would get it—or at least, that's what she believed."

"So why did that drive a wedge between Jessica and Mara? If Jessica didn't get the role, I mean?"

"According to Mara, Jessica was just… different after that.

Obsessive, secretive. Mara tried to reconnect, but Jessica seemed like a different person.

Jessica started spending a lot of time with the film's director.

Private meetings, late-night conversations.

Mara thought maybe they were planning another project together. "

Sheila watched a street performer juggle bowling pins, his audience seemingly oblivious to the police cars still parked behind the theater. "Did Mara know the director's name?"

"Bradley Greenwald."

The name caught Sheila by surprise. "The same Bradley Greenwald who's premiering his new documentary tonight?" she asked.

Finn nodded. "Mara said he's been holed up in the Mountain View Hotel all week, doing press interviews. Hasn't set foot in the theater since he arrived."

A festival volunteer hurried past, carrying a stack of programs. The cover featured a stylized image of mountains against a blood-red sky, with the text "PEAK MOUNTAIN FILM FESTIVAL" overlaid in stark white letters.

Beneath that, in smaller print: "Featuring the world premiere of 'Echoes of Silence' by Bradley Greenwald. "

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

"Already tried. His assistant says he's not taking meetings." Finn's eyes narrowed. "But there's a Q&A session scheduled for two o'clock. Part of the festival's 'Conversations with Directors' series."

Sheila checked her watch. Just past noon. "Where?"

"Theater Three." Finn gathered their empty containers. "Though if Greenwald's involved in this—the murder, I mean—he might not show. And that's assuming the festival hasn't been completely shut down by then."

A group of film students passed by, arguing about shot composition and the merits of practical effects over CGI.

One of them carried a vintage Super 8 camera, treating it with the reverence usually reserved for religious artifacts.

The festival seemed to attract true believers—people who lived and breathed cinema, who saw the world through an imaginary lens.

Was Jessica's murderer here right now, walking in plain sight?

"You okay?" Finn asked quietly.

Sheila realized she'd been lost in thought. "Just thinking."

"About Tommy?"

"No. But now I am." She chewed her lip, then met Finn's eyes. "I need to tell you something. I found a laptop in Tommy's apartment this morning."

Finn set down his coffee, his expression carefully neutral. "Tell me you had a warrant."

"I didn't." She held his gaze, refusing to look away. "But after what happened to him in custody, after everything that's gone down... I couldn't wait for paperwork."

A street performer started juggling nearby, drawing applause from a growing crowd. The sound felt jarring against the weight of their conversation.

"Where is it?" Finn asked quietly.

"In my truck." Sheila leaned forward. "It's password protected, but if anyone can crack it..."

"Don't." Finn ran a hand through his hair—a gesture she recognized as frustration mixed with concern. "Don't ask me to do that. Not without a warrant. You know anything we find would be inadmissible."

"I'm not thinking about court, Finn. I'm thinking about staying alive." She lowered her voice. "Tommy was planted in our department. Someone powerful enough to do that, to arrange my mother's murder, to get to Tommy in a secure holding cell—they're not going to play by the rules. So why should we?"

"Because the rules are what separates us from them." He reached across the table, taking her hand. "Sheila, I want these bastards as much as you do. But if we start breaking laws to catch them, where does it end?"

The touch of his hand was warm, grounding. She thought of all the times he'd been her moral compass, keeping her from crossing lines she might regret. But this time...

"I can't live the rest of my life in fear," she said softly. "I can't sit around wondering when they'll decide to strike again."

Finn was quiet for a long moment, his thumb tracing circles on her palm.

Around them, the festival continued its chaotic dance—food trucks serving lunch crowds, filmmakers networking over coffee, tourists taking selfies with movie posters.

The normality of it all felt surreal, given the nature of their conversation.

"What if there's another way?" he finally asked. "What if we can connect Tommy's attempt on your life to his 'cardiac event' in custody? That would give us probable cause for a warrant."

"That could take days. The laptop could have evidence about who's behind all this, who ordered my mother's murder.

.." She leaned closer. "Finn, I trust you.

More than anyone. If you really think I'm wrong about this, I'll listen.

But I need you to understand—this isn't just about justice anymore. It's about survival."

He studied her face, and she could see the conflict in his eyes.

Finn believed in doing things right, in maintaining the integrity that had helped him survive his own dark past. It was one of the things she loved about him.

But she also saw the moment his resolve wavered—not because she'd convinced him she was right, but because he understood what this meant to her.

"Give me twenty-four hours," he said finally. "Let me try to get a warrant first. If I can't..." He took a deep breath. "Then we'll talk about alternatives. But Sheila?" His eyes held hers. "Promise me you won't do anything with that laptop until then. Promise me we do this together."

She thought about lying—it would be easier, safer, maybe. But their relationship was built on trust, on having each other's backs even when they disagreed. And hadn't she just told him she trusted him more than anyone else?

"I promise," she said. "Twenty-four hours." And in the meantime, she would keep the laptop hidden in her truck where nobody would stumble across it.

Finn nodded, relief crossing his features. "Thank you."

A fresh wave of festival-goers swept past their table, carrying paper cups of artisanal coffee and tote bags emblazoned with the names of independent production companies.

Someone had set up a pop-up gallery nearby, displaying movie posters from the golden age of Hollywood.

The images seemed to watch them—larger-than-life faces frozen in moments of drama, each telling a story that someone had carefully crafted.

"Two hours until the Q&A," Finn said, checking his watch. "Want to see what else we can learn about Bradley Greenwald?"

Sheila stood, her decision made. "Let's start with the festival staff. Someone must know more about 'The Winter Palace'—how the casting really went down, who was involved in those decisions."

They made their way through the crowd, past food trucks and vendor booths selling everything from vintage film equipment to locally made jewelry.

A woman in cat-eye glasses was leading a tour group, her voice carrying over the general buzz: "And this is where Robert Redford once stopped for coffee during the very first Peak Mountain Film Festival. .."

Sheila barely heard her. Her mind was already racing ahead to the Q&A session, to the questions she needed to ask Bradley Greenwald. Because something about all this felt staged, choreographed—like a scene from a movie where everyone knew their lines except her.

And she was tired of being left in the dark.