Silent Neighbor (Sheila Stone #9)

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

Sheila leaned back in her chair, her eyes scanning the cluttered whiteboard before her. The surface was a maze of names, dates, and hastily scrawled notes, connected by a web of red string that seemed to lead nowhere. She rubbed her temples, feeling the beginnings of a headache forming behind her eyes.

The sheriff's station buzzed with activity around her, filled with the constant hum of voices and ringing phones. She and Finn had been trying to track down the suspect's bike for hours, but it felt like they were chasing shadows.

"There are just too many possibilities," Finn said, voicing Sheila's unspoken thoughts. He tossed a marker onto the desk, where it rolled to a stop next to a stack of untouched reports. "Dark-colored mountain bike? That could be half the outdoor enthusiasts in the county. And the tripod's not very helpful—it's not like he's going to keep riding around with that thing longer than necessary."

Sheila nodded, her gaze still fixed on the whiteboard. "And without a clear description of the rider, we're basically looking for a needle in a haystack."

They had checked traffic cameras, interviewed shop owners, even put out a call to local bike clubs. But the description was too vague, the timeframe too broad. Their killer could have been miles away by the time anyone thought to look for them.

A heavy silence fell between them, broken only by the sounds of the station. Sheila's mind raced, trying to find another angle, another lead to pursue. Her eyes fell on the list of items taken from the victims—Jake's phone, Brad's watch, Ellen's camera. Trophies, she was sure of it. But how could they use that information to catch the killer?

She was so lost in thought that she almost missed Finn's next words.

"Sheila, can I ask you something?"

She looked up, surprised by the hesitancy in his voice. "Of course. What is it?"

Finn shifted in his seat, his usual confidence seeming to falter. "Have you been avoiding me?"

The question caught Sheila off guard. She blinked, trying to keep her expression neutral even as her heart rate picked up. "Avoiding you? No, of course not. Why would you think that?"

But even as the words left her mouth, Sheila knew they weren't entirely true. She had been avoiding Finn, or at least avoiding being alone with him for too long. She'd been afraid he was going to suggest something more serious—a long-term commitment that she wasn't sure she was ready for.

"I don't know," Finn said, his eyes searching her face. "It just feels like you've been distant lately. Like you're pulling away."

Sheila forced a laugh, trying to deflect. "I've just been busy with the case, Finn. We both have. There's been a lot going on."

But Finn wasn't buying it. He leaned forward, his gaze intense. "No, it's more than that. What's going on, Sheila?"

Frustration bubbled up inside her, fueled by the stress of the case and the pressure of this conversation. "Me? You're the one who's been acting differently," she said. "Like when you kissed me in the car the other night. I wasn't ready for that."

Finn's brow furrowed in confusion. "We're dating, Sheila. Couples kiss. I didn't think it was a big deal."

Sheila sighed, running a hand through her hair. "I know, I know. It's just... I want to take things slowly, okay? I haven't dated in a long time, and all of this feels very new to me."

Finn's expression softened. "I understand that. But Sheila, I care about you. I want a future with you. Don't you think we should at least talk about where this is going?"

Sheila felt a knot form in her stomach. This was exactly the conversation she'd been dreading. "I'm not ready for that, Finn. Not yet."

"Will you ever be ready?" Finn asked quietly.

Before she could respond, the door to the sheriff's office swung open. Hank Dawson stepped out, his face grave. "Stone, Mercer. My office, now."

Sheila and Finn exchanged a glance, their personal conversation forgotten in the face of what was clearly urgent business. They followed Hank into his office, the tension between them momentarily pushed aside.

As they entered, Sheila noticed another man already in the room. He was tall and lean, with close-cropped gray hair and a neatly trimmed mustache. His crisp uniform marked him as state police, and the set of his shoulders spoke of years of authority.

Hank cleared his throat. "Deputies, this is Lieutenant Gerald Hoffman from the state police. Lieutenant, Deputies Sheila Stone and Finn Mercer."

Sheila felt a chill run down her spine. She'd been a cop long enough to know that when the state police showed up unannounced, it was rarely good news.

Hank didn't waste time with pleasantries. "I'll get right to the point. Lieutenant Hoffman is here to take over the investigation into the Coldwater killings."

The words hit Sheila like a sucker punch. She stared at Hank in disbelief, sure she must have misheard. "Take over? But, sir, we're making progress. We just need more time—"

Hank held up a hand, cutting her off. "You've had time, Stone. Three bodies in two days, and we're no closer to catching this guy than we were when we started."

"But sir—" Sheila began, only to be interrupted by Lieutenant Hoffman.

"This isn't a reflection on your abilities, Deputies," he said, his voice calm and professional. "But the fact is, we have resources that a small department like this simply doesn't. We can bring in profilers, forensic experts—"

"We don't need profilers," Sheila insisted, her frustration mounting. "We know this area, we know these people. We're close, I can feel it."

Hank sighed, rubbing his forehead. "I don't like this any more than you do, Stone. But the mayor's breathing down my neck. The community is scared. We need results, and we need them now. Unless you have a clear idea who the killer is, or some other promising lead…?"

Finn sighed, disappointed. Sheila stared at the floor.

"Okay, then," Hank said. "In that case—"

"Actually, we do," Sheila said.

"Do what?"

"Have a clear idea who the killer is."

The room fell silent. Even Finn looked at her in surprise.

Lieutenant Hoffman raised an eyebrow. "Is that so? And you're just mentioning this now?"

Sheila swallowed hard, knowing she was on thin ice but unable to back down now. "We have a list of names," she said, trying to project more confidence than she felt. "Members of a sports group called Extreme Limits. We're confident the killer is one of them."

Sheila had no certainty the killer's name was really on that list, but her gut told her it was likely. Besides, she truly believed she was the best person for the job. Hoffman was probably a competent officer, but he didn't know these people like she and Finn did, and the time he'd have to spend getting caught up would give the killer that many more opportunities to strike again.

Hank and Hoffman exchanged a look. "And how close are you to narrowing down this list?" Hank asked.

Sheila hesitated. "We just need a little more time," she said. "Forty-eight hours. Give us that, and I promise we'll have something concrete."

The room was silent for a long moment. Sheila held her breath, acutely aware of Finn's eyes on her, of the weight of her promise hanging in the air.

Finally, Hank spoke. "Twenty-four hours," he said, his voice firm. "You have until this time tomorrow to bring me something solid. If you can't, the state police take over. No arguments, no extensions. Understood?"

Sheila nodded, relief washing over her even as the pressure of her self-imposed deadline settled on her shoulders. "Understood, sir. Thank you."

As they filed out of Hank's office, Sheila could feel Finn's eyes boring into her. She knew he was bursting with questions, probably more than a little angry at her for making promises she wasn't sure they could keep. But she couldn't bring herself to meet his gaze.

Instead, she strode purposefully back to her desk. Twenty-four hours. It wasn't much, but it would have to be enough.

They had a killer to catch, and now, more than ever, the clock was ticking.