Page 38 of Silent Prey

She exhaled raggedly and nodded. "Just a dream," she said, wiping her sweaty palms on the bed sheet.

Finn offered a weak smile that didn't reach his eyes. "A pretty bad one, by the sound of it." He hesitated, as if wondering whether to say more. Then: “It was about Natalie, wasn’t it?”

Sheila swallowed hard and looked away.

“I’m not saying it has to be me,” Finn said, “but you have to talk with someone about this. It’s eating you up inside. I can't bear to see you hurting like this."

Silent tears streamed down Sheila’s face as she nodded, lost in the echoes of that nightmarish vision. Finn reached out, wiping away her tears with his thumb. The intimacy of the moment was almost overwhelming.

"I just…" She paused, struggling to find words that could possibly voice the maelstrom within her. "I just feel so guilty."

"Why?" Finn frowned.

“I’m the reason she got shot, the reason she was in that wheelchair. And if that hadn’t happened, if she’d stayed the fit, strong, healthy older sister I’d always known, would she ever have fallen into such despair?”

Finn was silent for a moment, weighing her words. He looked at her with such compassion it made her heart ache. When he finally spoke, his voice was firm. "You're blaming yourself for things you couldn't control, Sheila. You didn’t shoot her."

“No, but if I hadn’t gotten involved in that investigation in the first place, if I’d just said no like I should have…” She trailed off, the words dissolving on her tongue.

Finn sighed, running a hand through his sandy hair. "Regret is a heavy burden to carry," he said softly. "We all wish we could've done more for those we love when they suffer. But the reality is, we can only do so much. Natalie wouldn't want you punishing yourself for her decisions."

Silence consumed the room once more, punctuated only by the distant hoot of an owl and the rhythm of their own breathing. On impulse, Sheila rested her head on Finn's shoulder, allowing his words to wash over her like a soothing balm.

"Promise me," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "Promise me you'll let go of this guilt."

Sheila closed her eyes, leaning into Finn's warm touch. For now, all she could offer was a whispered, "I'll try."

It was a start, she realized: a small, shaky step on the long road to healing. Finn didn't push further; instead he just tightened his arms around her, drawing her closer. His heartbeat beneath her ear was steady and comforting, and she felt the horror of the dream receding.

Sheila gripped Finn’s shirt in her fists, as if afraid he would dissolve into thin air if she let go. His hands moved slowly, smoothing her long hair back, offering her the silent support she so desperately needed.

“Thank you for coming in,” she whispered.

“Of course,” he said. There was a hitch in his voice. Was he just emotional because they’d been talking about Natalie…or was it more about her? Wiping her tears wasn’t the act of someone just trying to be a good partner.

Suddenly she felt confused, uncertain of her own feelings and those of the man she was tangled up with. Even if she'd had the emotional equanimity to maintain a romantic relationship—and that was a big if—she didn't want to build a relationship on pity.

Extricating herself from Finn's embrace, she cleared her throat and grabbed her phone. "I should really get going," she said. "I need to speak with Vincent Drake and—" That was when she noticed the several missed calls from her dad.

"What is it?" Finn asked.

"Damn it," Sheila muttered, reading the last text message her father had sent: Star's in trouble—you need to get over there ASAP.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Sheila had only been to Star’s apartment once, so as she drove through the rundown neighborhood in search of the correct building, she relied heavily on her memory. The half-illuminated sign of the area's solitary bar flickered intermittently, casting a gloomy glow on the cracked pavement below.

Despite the late hour, the area was anything but quiet: a couple of street vendors were still out, yelling over each other to attract what sparse crowd there was; pulsating music leaked from hidden alleys, where groups of young men congregated, their raucous conversations blending into the cacophonous night. It provided an eerie soundtrack to her search, and Sheila strained her eyes peering into the shadows.

Where is she? Sheila wondered. And more importantly, what’s wrong?

After leaving the hotel, she’d tried to call her father, but her father hadn’t picked up the phone. Probably sleeping. He’d been having knee problems, which was probably why he’d asked her to go bail Star out of whatever fix she was in rather than attending to the matter himself.

She just can’t stay out of trouble, can she?

Sheila thought back to the time when Star had tried to steal a police cruiser. Then, when the officer caught her, she’d punched him in the nose and tried to run. If Sheila hadn’t convinced the officer to be lenient, Star might soon have been on her way to juvenile detention.

Had she tried boosting another car? Perhaps gotten caught up with the wrong crowd?

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