Silent Neighbor (Sheila Stone #9)

CHAPTER TEN

Sheila stood before the whiteboard in the sheriff's station, her eyes scanning the web of information they'd gathered so far. Photos, notes, and timelines cluttered the surface, a visual representation of the complex case they were trying to unravel. The harsh fluorescent lighting cast a sickly glow over everything, making the gruesome crime scene photos seem even more stark and unsettling.

Marcus Holbrook's words echoed in her mind: If a climber doesn't respect the mountain, the mountain won't respect them either. She couldn't shake the feeling that there was something significant about that statement. Could the killer's motive somehow be tied to this idea of respecting—or disrespecting—nature?

She thought back to the discussion board online, and how angry PhoenixRising had seemed about Jake's risky behavior. Marcus Holbrook had seemed upset about the very same thing—Jake's recklessness.

Was that why the killer displayed his victims the way he did? As some kind of… example? This is what happens if you behave this way?

"What if our perp sees himself as some kind of... I don't know, nature's avenger?" she mused aloud, her voice breaking the tense silence that had fallen over the room.

Finn, who had been slouched in a nearby chair, looked up from the file he'd been flipping through. His tie was loose, and his usually neat hair was disheveled from running his hands through it in frustration. "You mean like an eco-terrorist?"

Sheila shook her head, her brow furrowed in concentration. "Not exactly. More like someone who thinks these extreme sports enthusiasts are disrespecting the natural world. Someone who believes they need to be taught a lesson."

Finn considered this for a moment, absently tapping his pen against the arm of his chair. The rhythmic sound filled the room, punctuating the heavy silence. "It's an interesting theory, but it's a bit of a stretch, don't you think? We don't have any evidence pointing in that direction."

"We don't have much evidence pointing in any direction," Sheila said with a sigh, her shoulders sagging slightly under the weight of their lack of progress. She turned back to the whiteboard, her eyes tracing the red string that connected various pieces of evidence. "What about those leads you mentioned earlier?"

Finn slouched further in his chair, his shoulders drooping as he flipped through his notebook. "We could check with local gear shops, see if anyone's been buying an unusual amount of climbing equipment," he said, his voice barely above a mumble. He paused, stifling a yawn before continuing, "Or maybe canvas the popular climbing spots, show Jake's picture around."

Sheila watched as Finn's eyes glazed over, his gaze drifting to the window. He blinked hard, as if trying to refocus, then added, "I suppose we could also look into Jake's social media contacts, see if anyone stands out."

His words trailed off, and he absently tapped his pen against the notepad, the rhythmic sound filling the room. The spark that usually lit up his eyes when discussing case leads was noticeably absent, replaced by a dull weariness.

Sheila waited for more, but Finn had fallen silent, his attention now fixed on a fly buzzing against the window pane.

"Any word from Dwayne about PhoenixRising?" she asked.

"Still working on it," Finn replied, fighting another yawn. The long hours were clearly taking their toll on both of them. "You know how he is. Won't come up for air until he's cracked it or hit a dead end."

Sheila nodded, her mind already moving on to the next question. "What about Jake Pearson's phone? Any luck tracing it?"

"Nothing," Finn said, frustration evident in his voice. He tossed the file he'd been reading onto the cluttered desk beside him. "It's like it vanished into thin air. Nobody's found it, and we can't get a signal."

"The killer must have it," Sheila muttered, more to herself than to Finn. She began pacing the length of the room, her boots echoing on the linoleum floor. "But why take it? What could be on there that's so important? Or is it just a trophy?"

Before Finn could respond, the door opened with a creak and Sheriff Hank Dawson walked in. His round face was creased with concern, and he carried the scent of coffee and cologne with him. "How's it going in here? Any breakthroughs?"

Sheila's eyes met Finn's, a silent communication passing between them. She cleared her throat and turned to Dawson. "We've been following up on Jake Pearson's known associates, but so far—"

"Dead ends," Finn interjected, shaking his head. "Nobody seems to know anything useful."

Dawson's brow furrowed, deepening the lines on his forehead. He leaned against the desk, his weight causing the old wood to creak softly. "What about the climbing community? Any leads there?"

Sheila sighed. "We've interviewed several local climbers, but—"

"Nothing concrete," Finn finished, running a hand through his disheveled hair.

As they spoke, Dawson's fingers found their way to his badge, tracing its outline absently. His eyes darted between Sheila and Finn, following their back-and-forth. With each piece of non-news, he gave a small nod, his chin dipping lower each time.

"The forensics report?" Dawson asked, his voice tinged with hope.

Sheila shook her head, her lips pressed into a thin line. "Still waiting on some results, but so far it hasn't given us much to go on."

Dawson's fingers stilled on his badge, his hand dropping to his side as he let out a long, weary breath. "Well, we'll just have to keep our nose to the grindstone, won't we?"

Finn nodded. Sheila stared at the floor, troubled.

Dawson cleared his throat, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "Listen, Sheila, there's something else I wanted to ask you. Did you end up applying for the sheriff position, by any chance?"

Sheila hesitated, still uncertain whether she wanted the position or not. "I did, actually."

Dawson's face broke into a warm smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "I'm glad to hear it. Between you and me, I'd rather put in my nine-to-five and spend the rest of my time fishing. This interim gig is more stress than I signed up for."

Sheila smiled back. "You're really selling the job."

Dawson laughed. "Oh, I'm just not cut out for this sort of thing. You, on the other hand—you'll make a hell of a sheriff, Stone. I'd put money on you getting the job."

As Dawson left, closing the door behind him with a soft click, Sheila found herself grappling with mixed emotions. Did she really want the position? Was she really ready to step into Natalie's shoes?

Finn's voice broke through her reverie. "Hey, what do you say we grab some food? We've been at this for hours." He stretched, his joints popping audibly in the quiet room, while his eyes watched her closely.

Something in his gaze made Sheila uneasy. She had a feeling he wanted to talk about something, and she had a pretty good idea what it might be. His comment at Holbrook's house came floating back to her: You could raise a big family in a place this size.

"Actually," Sheila said, perhaps a bit too quickly, "I'd rather get takeout so we can keep working. Would you mind picking something up while I make a call?"

Disappointment flashed across Finn's face, but he nodded, grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair. "Sure, no problem. The usual?"

"That'd be great, thanks."

As Finn left, the door closing behind him with a soft thud, Sheila stepped outside. The evening air was cool against her skin, a welcome relief from the stuffy confines of the station. The sun was setting, painting the sky in brilliant shades of orange and pink, the clouds edged with gold. She pulled out her phone and dialed her dad's number, the familiar digits a comforting routine.

Gabriel Stone answered on the third ring. In the background, Sheila could hear the clinking of metal and the soft whir of what sounded like a small motor. "Hey, sweetheart," Gabe said, his gruff voice warm with affection. "Just a sec, let me turn this off."

The mechanical sounds ceased, replaced by the rustling of movement. "Sorry about that," Gabe continued. "I was just working on a carpentry project in the garage. How are you doing?"

"I'm good, Dad," Sheila said, realizing as she spoke how much she'd missed hearing his voice. She leaned against the rough brick wall of the station, letting its solidity ground her. "Busy with a new case. How about you? Making another of those birdhouses you like so much?"

Gabe chuckled, the sound punctuated by the soft rasp of sandpaper against wood. "You know me too well. Just finished the roof today. You should see it, Sheila. It's got these tiny cedar shingles—"

"Let me guess," Sheila interrupted, a smile tugging at her lips. "You made each one by hand?"

"My daughter, the detective," Gabe said. The pride in his voice was palpable. "It's delicate work, but there's something satisfying about it. How about you? How's work?"

Sheila's smile faded slightly. She pushed off from the wall, pacing a few steps. "It's... challenging. We've got this case—"

The sandpapering sound stopped abruptly. "The one with the climber?"

"Yeah," Sheila said with a sigh. "Heard about it on the news?"

"Just a bit ago, yeah. Making any progress?"

"We're following some leads, but..." She trailed off, biting her lip.

"But you can't talk about it," Gabe finished for her. "I understand, sweetheart. Just remember, you've got good instincts. Trust them."

Sheila nodded, even though her father couldn't see her. The knot in her shoulders loosened a bit. "Thanks, Dad. I needed to hear that."

The gentle scraping resumed in the background. Neither of them spoke for several moments.

"So," Gabe said, a hint of mischief in his voice, "how are things going with Finn?"

Sheila hesitated, her free hand absently picking at a loose thread on her sleeve. She'd been purposely vague about her relationship with Finn in her conversations with her dad. But now, feeling the weight of everything pressing down on her, she found herself wanting to confide in him.

"Actually, Dad, that's part of why I called," she admitted, her voice soft. "Things with Finn are... well, they're getting serious. Maybe too serious."

"What do you mean by 'too serious'?" Gabe asked.

Sheila sighed, running a hand through her hair. "I don't know. It's just... I get the feeling he's thinking long-term. Really long-term. Like, marriage and kids long-term. And I'm not sure I'm ready for that."

"Have you talked to him about this?"

"Not really," Sheila admitted, guilt coloring her words. "I guess I'm worried he's going to propose or something, and I don't know how to handle that."

Gabe was quiet for a moment, the silence stretching between them. When he spoke, his voice was gentle, filled with the wisdom of years. "Sheila, honey, you know that even if Finn did propose, you can say no, right? You're not trapped. You always have a choice."

"I know, Dad. It's just... complicated."

"Love usually is," Gabe said with a chuckle, the sound warm and familiar. "But that's what makes it worth it."

Sheila kicked at a pebble on the sidewalk, watching it skitter across the pavement. "In other news, I put in my application for sheriff," she said.

The rhythmic sound of Gabe's sanding paused. "That's great news, sweetheart. So why do you sound like you're heading to a funeral?"

Sheila exhaled heavily, her breath visible in the cool evening air. "It's just... it's Natalie's job, you know? I keep thinking about how she'd handle things, wondering if I'm making the right choices."

"Ah," Gabe said softly. The creak of his old wooden chair carried through the phone as he shifted. "You know, I had similar doubts about myself when I first became sheriff."

Sheila's eyebrows shot up. "You did?"

"Oh, yeah," Gabe chuckled. "I was constantly second-guessing myself, wondering if I was living up to the legacy of those who came before me."

"How did you get past it?"

The sanding resumed, a gentle backdrop to Gabe's words. "I realized something important, Sheila. The job isn't about filling someone else's shoes. It's about bringing your own strengths to the table."

Sheila leaned back against the wall, letting her father's words sink in. "I never knew you struggled with that."

"Never saw the point in burdening you kids with it," Gabe said. "But let me tell you something. You've got instincts that rival any sheriff I've ever known—including myself and Natalie."

"Dad—" Sheila started to protest.

"No, listen," Gabe interrupted, his voice firm. "The job's gonna be tough. There'll be days when you question every decision. But remember this: You're not Natalie, and you're not me. You're Sheila Stone, and that's exactly who Coldwater needs."

Sheila felt a lump forming in her throat. She swallowed hard before responding. "Thanks, Dad. I... I really needed to hear that."

"Anytime, sweetheart," Gabe said warmly. "Besides, you only get one life. This is a chance for you to make a difference. I know you're doing important work now, but as sheriff you can do even more—really leave your mark on this community. Opportunities like that don't come along every day."

Sheila fell silent, unsure what to say to that. Before she could think of a reply, the station door opened behind her. She turned to see Finn approaching, his face set in a grim expression that immediately set her on edge.

"Dad, I've got to go," Sheila said, her heart rate picking up. "Something's come up."

"Alright, sweetheart. Remember, I'm always here if you need to talk."

Sheila ended the call and turned to Finn, her body tensing in anticipation of bad news. "What is it? What's wrong?"

Finn's face was grim. "We've got another body."