Silent Neighbor (Sheila Stone #9)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Sheila stood at the edge of the cliff, her toes mere inches from the precipice. The wind whipped around her, tugging at her jacket and sending loose strands of hair dancing across her face.

One step, and it would all be over, she thought.

The scent of sage and dust filled her nostrils, mingling with the metallic tang of blood that hung in the air. Below, suspended from a network of ropes like a macabre marionette, hung the body of a man.

The last vestiges of daylight were fading rapidly, painting the sky in deep purples and blues. The encroaching darkness lent an eerie quality to the scene, shadows stretching and morphing across the rugged landscape. Jagged rock formations loomed in the distance, their silhouettes black against the darkening sky. Emergency floodlights had been set up, their harsh glare creating stark contrasts against the natural beauty of the cliff face, casting long, distorted shadows that seemed to reach out like grasping fingers.

Sheila's eyes traced the path of the body's descent, noting the smears of dried blood on the rocks below. It was clear the victim had fallen all the way down before being hauled back up and secured in this grotesque display. The similarity to Jake Pearson's death was undeniable.

She took a step back from the edge, the loose gravel crunching under her boots. Her gaze swept the immediate area, taking in every detail. Scuff marks marred the dusty ground near the cliff's edge, telling a silent story of struggle. Had the victim been pushed? Or had he simply lost his footing in a tragic accident? It was not outside the realm of possibility that the killer they were searching for wasn't really a killer at all but rather a grim opportunist, a vulture that preyed on the dead and strung them up like trophies.

It wasn't a particularly likely theory, but still, she had to keep an open mind, didn't she?

"Sheila." Finn's voice cut through her thoughts as he approached, his face grim in the harsh light. The shadows under his eyes spoke of long hours and mounting stress. "Got some info for you."

She turned to face him, noting the tension in his shoulders, the way his hand unconsciously gripped his notepad a little too tightly. "What have we got?"

"Victim's been identified as Brad Blackwell," Finn said, consulting his notepad. His voice was low, almost drowned out by the whipping wind and the distant murmur of emergency personnel. "Some hikers found him less than an hour ago. He's apparently some kind of internet celebrity—goes by the name ThrillSeeker23. Adventure blogger, extreme sports enthusiast, that kind of thing."

Sheila nodded, processing the information. Her mind was already drawing parallels between this victim and Jake Pearson. "Any witnesses?"

Finn shook his head, frustration evident in the set of his jaw. "None so far. I've got officers canvassing the area, but it's a long shot. This place is pretty remote—miles of wilderness in every direction."

Sheila turned her attention back to the suspended body. "Remote or not," she said, "you still get a few hikers out here. How long do you think it would take to stage the body like this?"

Finn opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. He shrugged. "No idea. A while, though, I imagine."

And nobody caught him in the act."

"Maybe he hid the body until he had everything set up. Piled rocks on it or something."

"Maybe," Sheila murmured, chewing her lip. "Or maybe he works quickly, which would suggest a high degree of skill."

"And a high degree of willingness to take risks," Finn added.

Sheila's eyes narrowed as she studied the rope work. Someone had driven pitons into the rock face, securing the ropes with expert precision. She pulled out her phone, snapping several photos of the setup, the flash briefly illuminating the grisly scene.

As she zoomed in on one of the pitons, something caught her eye. "Finn, look at this," she said, gesturing him closer. Their shoulders brushed as he leaned in, and she caught a whiff of his familiar cologne mixed with sweat and dust. "These pitons—they look old. Vintage, even. Like something you'd find in a specialty gift shop."

Finn leaned in, squinting at the image. His brow furrowed in concentration. "You're right. That's odd. Why use old equipment for something like this?"

Sheila shook her head, adding it to the growing list of questions surrounding this case. Each answer seemed to bring two more questions. "We need to get down there," she said, gesturing to the base of the cliff. "See what we can find. If the killer went down there to secure the ropes around Brad's body, maybe we'll find a footprint."

They began their descent down a steep, winding trail that led to the bottom of the cliff. The path was treacherous, loose rocks skittering away under their feet, threatening to send them tumbling. Gnarled juniper trees clung to the hillside, their twisted branches reaching out like arthritic fingers. As they picked their way carefully over loose rocks and exposed roots, Finn filled Sheila in on the steps they were taking.

"I've got officers stopping anyone trying to leave the area," he said, his breath slightly labored from the exertion. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cool evening air. "We're taking names, checking IDs. If our guy is still around, we might get lucky."

Sheila nodded, but she couldn't shake the feeling that their killer was long gone. The meticulous nature of the crime scene spoke of someone who planned ahead, who wouldn't risk sticking around to admire their handiwork. "What about surveillance? Any cameras in the area? Parking lots, maybe?"

Finn shook his head, ducking under a low-hanging branch. "Nothing official. We're checking with the hikers, seeing if anyone was filming or taking pictures. But out here? It's a long shot."

They reached the bottom of the trail, the looming cliff face now towering above them like a giant tombstone. The spot where Brad had apparently met his end was easy to identify—a dark stain on the dusty ground marked the point of impact. The copper smell of blood was stronger here, mixed with the earthy scent of crushed vegetation.

Sheila approached slowly, her eyes scanning the area. She tried to imagine Brad's final moments—the terror of the fall, the sickening realization that death was imminent. The thought made her stomach churn. Had he been aware during his entire descent? Or had mercy granted him unconsciousness before the end?

"No footprints," Finn murmured. "Nothing clear, anyway."

As Sheila carefully examined the scene, something caught her eye. Beneath a scrubby desert sage bush, its silvery-green leaves rustling gently in the breeze, was a dark object. The bush's pungent aroma filled her nostrils as she crouched down for a closer look. Sheila snapped on a pair of latex gloves, the material tight against her skin, and carefully reached under the bush.

Her fingers closed around cool metal and glass. She pulled out her find, holding it up to the light. "It's a cell phone," she said, turning to Finn. "Could be the victim's."

Finn's eyebrows shot up, a glimmer of hope in his tired eyes. "That could be a goldmine of information."

"If we can unlock it," Sheila agreed.

"Should we hand it over to Dwayne?"

Sheila shook her head. "He's busy enough as it is. Let's hold onto it and check out Brad's apartment. Maybe, just maybe, he wrote the password down somewhere—and who knows what we might find on it. I have a feeling the killer didn't intend for us to find it."

***

Hours later, Sheila and Finn stood in the living room of Brad Blackwell's small apartment. It was a tidy space, the walls adorned with posters of extreme sports and far-flung destinations.

The landlady, a nervous woman in her sixties with a floral housecoat and curlers in her hair, hovered anxiously in the doorway. Her hands fluttered like startled birds as she spoke, her voice thin and reedy. "I still can't believe it," she kept muttering. "Brad was such a nice young man. Always paid his rent on time."

Sheila tried to tune out the woman's rambling as she surveyed the space. It hardly looked lived-in at all, which only emphasized what they already knew of Brad's love of the outdoors. Clearly, his life had been lived more outside this space than within it.

Then her attention was drawn to a room at the back. The door was closed, a "Do Not Disturb" sign hanging from the knob. When Sheila opened it, she felt like she'd stepped into another world. This room was Brad's studio, where he apparently filmed some of his videos when he wasn't out in the wilderness. The space was immaculate, the air smelling of electronics and new plastic.

Every piece of equipment was in its place, gleaming under the soft glow of LED lights. The walls were lined with neatly organized shelves of gear—cameras, microphones, drones, and various pieces of climbing equipment, all arranged with military precision. A top-of-the-line computer setup dominated one corner, multiple monitors displaying editing software and social media analytics.

"Quite a setup he's got here," Finn murmured, his fingers trailing over a high-end camera.

Sheila nodded. "It's clear where his passions lay."

As they were examining the studio, a sharp ringtone cut through the air. Sheila turned to see Brad's phone—the one they'd found at the crime scene—lighting up on the kitchen counter where they'd placed it.

She hesitated for a moment, exchanging a glance with Finn. Then, decision made, she strode over and answered it. "Hello?"

There was a pause on the other end, the silence heavy with unasked questions. "Who is this?" a gruff male voice asked, a mix of confusion and worry evident in his tone. "Where's Brad?"

Sheila took a deep breath, steeling herself for the conversation to come. "This is Deputy Sheila Stone with the Coldwater County Sheriff's Department. May I ask who's calling?"

Another pause, longer this time. When the man spoke again, his voice was tight with barely contained fear. "This is Robert Blackwell. Brad's father. He... he left me a voicemail earlier. I've been trying to reach him. Is he... is everything okay?"

Sheila closed her eyes, resisting the urge to sigh into the phone. "I think we'd better have this conversation face-to-face."