Silent Neighbor (Sheila Stone #9)

CHAPTER TWELVE

The living room of Doug Blackwell's modest home was thick with tension. Sheila sat perched on the edge of an overstuffed armchair, her eyes fixed on the man across from her. Doug's face was ashen, his hands trembling as he processed the news she had just delivered.

"How?" Doug's voice was barely above a whisper. "How did it happen?"

Sheila exchanged a glance with Finn, who sat beside her on the worn couch. "Mr. Blackwell, Brad was found at the base of a cliff in the Valley of the Gods. We're still investigating the exact circumstances, but..." She paused, weighing how much to reveal. "We have reason to believe there may have been foul play involved."

Doug's eyes widened, a mix of shock and disbelief clouding his features. "Foul play? But why? Who would want to hurt Brad?"

"That's what we're trying to determine," Finn interjected softly. "We were hoping you might be able to help us understand more about Brad's life, his relationships."

Doug nodded, running a hand through his thinning hair. "Of course, anything I can do. It's just... God, I can't believe this is happening."

Sheila leaned forward, her voice softening. "Mr. Blackwell, you mentioned before that Brad had left you a voicemail. Would you be willing to let us hear it? It could potentially help with our investigation."

Doug nodded, fumbling for his phone. His fingers shook as he navigated to his voicemail, the tremors making the task visibly difficult. Finally, he hit the speaker button, and Brad's voice filled the room, a haunting echo from beyond the grave.

"Hey, Dad. It's me, Brad. I, uh... I'm just calling to say hi, I guess. And to let you know I've been thinking about what you said. About wanting to talk. Maybe we could grab a coffee sometime? Anyway, give me a call back when you can. I... I love you, Dad."

The message ended, leaving a heavy silence in its wake. Doug's eyes were brimming with unshed tears, the pain of lost opportunities etched clearly on his face.

"We hadn't spoken in months," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I've been trying to get sober, you know? Wanted to make things right between us. But Brad, he... he was hesitant. Can't say I blame him."

Sheila nodded sympathetically, her heart aching for this man and the reconciliation that would never come. "Can you tell us more about your relationship with Brad?"

Doug sighed heavily, leaning back in his chair. The leather creaked under his weight, the sound loud in the quiet room. "I wasn't a good father. Drank too much, wasn't there when he needed me. By the time I realized how much I'd screwed up, Brad was already gone, off chasing his dreams of adventure."

He gestured to a shelf lined with framed photos, each one a snapshot of a life now lost. "I've followed his vlog, you know. Watched every video. It was like... like I was trying to make up for lost time, get to know the man my son had become."

Doug's voice cracked, and he stood abruptly, the sudden movement startling in the somber atmosphere. "I'm sorry, I need a moment. Can I get you anything?"

Finn shook his head. "No, thank you."

As Doug left the room, his footsteps heavy on the hardwood floor, Sheila exchanged a puzzled glance with Finn. She had a feeling she knew where Doug was going, so she followed him.

She found him in the kitchen, unscrewing the cap on a bottle of whiskey.

"You don't have to, you know," she said softly.

He paused, his back to Sheila, the bottle in one hand and the cap in the other. His shoulders slumped. "It's crazy, isn't it?" he said. "How the things that ruin us are the very things we run to for help?"

"You're not a bad father. Brad knew you were trying, and that must've meant the world to him."

Doug took a deep, unsteady breath. "I can't decide which is worse—feeling or not feeling. All I feel is pain."

Sheila could imagine how he was feeling, and it broke her heart.

"That drink will only make it worse," she said. "It might numb everything for a while, but then you'll feel the pain and the guilt together. It's better to just feel the pain."

With an effort, Doug set the bottle down. Then he tossed the cap on the counter and turned around. There were tears in the corners of his eyes.

"I wanted so badly to make him proud," he said. "You ever heard of that? A father wanting to make his son proud?

"He loved you. He saw you , not your demons."

Doug nodded and cleared his throat. "We shouldn't keep your partner waiting—not polite." He smiled sadly.

Sheila nodded, and together they returned to the living room. Doug sat down heavily, and Sheila found herself wandering over to a shelf of photos. She picked up one that showed a younger Doug with a teenage Brad, both grinning at the camera, fishing rods in hand. Despite the smiles, there was a tension in Brad's posture, a distance in his eyes that hinted at the strained relationship Doug had described.

Sheila's mind drifted to Natalie, her sister who had taken her own life. The pain of that loss was still raw, a constant ache in her chest that flared anew in moments like these. Looking at these photos of Brad and Doug, she was struck by the fragility of life, the unpredictability of time.

You never know how much time you have with those you love, she thought.

Sheila set the photo back on the shelf with careful reverence. "Mr. Blackwell, can you tell us about Brad's friends? Anyone he spent a lot of time with?"

Doug shook his head. "Honestly, I don't know. Brad always seemed like a bit of a loner, very different from his online persona. In his videos, he was always so outgoing, but the Brad I knew... he kept to himself."

Sheila made a mental note of this, her mind already drawing parallels with what they'd seen in Brad's apartment—the stark contrast between his public image and his private life.

Sheila thought about Jake Pearson's disregard for safety protocols. "This may seem like an odd question," she said to Doug, "but how seriously would you say Brad took his safety during his adventures?"

"Safety?" A flicker of pride crossed Doug's face, momentarily pushing back the grief. "Brad was always a bit of a daredevil, even as a kid. Always testing his limits, pushing boundaries. It scared the hell out of me, but it was also... impressive, I guess. The stuff he could do."

Sheila and Finn exchanged a glance, a silent communication passing between them. Another parallel with Jake Pearson—both victims had a tendency to take unnecessary risks. Was this a pattern? A motive?

Sheila pulled out her phone, bringing up a photo of the pitons they'd found at the crime scene. The metal gleamed dully in the image, its age evident even in the digital reproduction. "Mr. Blackwell, do you recognize these? Do you think they might have belonged to Brad?"

Doug leaned in, squinting at the screen, his breath fogging the glass slightly. After a moment, he shook his head, leaning back. "I doubt it. Brad was always partial to new, state-of-the-art gear. Those look pretty old."

"Thank you, Mr. Blackwell," Sheila said, pocketing her phone. "You've been very helpful. Is there anything else you can think of that might help us understand what happened to Brad?"

Doug was quiet for a moment. "Just... find who did this. Please. Brad and I, we may have had our problems, but he was my son. He deserved better than this."

Sheila nodded solemnly, feeling the weight of responsibility settle heavily on her shoulders. "We'll do everything we can, Mr. Blackwell. You have my word."

They had only gone a few steps, however, before Doug's voice stopped them.

"One more thing," he said quickly. "Is there any way I could have Brad's watch back?"

Sheila and Finn exchanged a puzzled glance. "His watch?" Finn asked.

Doug nodded. "Yes. It was a gift I gave him, had his initials engraved on the inside. It's… very precious to me."

"We'll need to examine everything that was on his person," Sheila said, "but we'll do everything we can to return that watch to you as soon as possible."

Doug swallowed hard and nodded. "Thank you."

As they left Doug's house, the weight of their conversation seemed to follow them, hanging in the air like a heavy fog. She and Finn walked in silence to their car, both lost in thought, their footsteps crunching on the gravel driveway.

Once inside the vehicle, the doors closing with a muted thud, Finn turned to her. "What are you thinking?"

Sheila sighed, rubbing her temples, feeling the beginnings of a headache forming. "I'm thinking we need to talk to Marcus Holbrook again. Those pitons... they must have belonged to the killer. And if anyone would recognize vintage climbing gear, it'd be Holbrook."

Finn nodded, starting the car. The engine rumbled to life, a comforting background noise to their conversation. "You think the killer's leaving his own equipment at the crime scene? That's risky."

"Maybe," Sheila mused, her gaze unfocused as she stared out the windshield. "Or maybe it's part of the message he's trying to send. Remember what Holbrook said about respecting the mountain? What if our killer sees himself as some kind of... I don't know, guardian of climbing traditions?"

"It's a stretch," Finn said, but his tone was thoughtful, considering. "But it's the best lead we've got right now."

As they drove toward Holbrook's house, Sheila's mind raced with possibilities. The parallels between Jake and Brad were striking—both risk-takers, both with strained family relationships, both killed in similar ways. It couldn't be a coincidence. There had to be a connection, a thread that tied these seemingly random acts together.

She thought back to Doug Blackwell's grief-stricken face, to the photos of a younger Brad. To the voicemail that would now forever be the last words between father and son. It struck her again how fragile life was, how quickly everything could change. One moment, you're leaving a hopeful message for your estranged father…

The next, you're gone, leaving behind nothing but questions and regrets.