Page 3 of Silent Ritual

Sheila turned around, her posture radiating a confidence born from years in the ring. Her eyes glinted with the silent challenge. “Is that right?” she asked. “Would you like to put that theory to the test?”

A murmur rippled through the onlookers as the tension thickened, the air charged with anticipation. The bartender, a flicker of recognition crossing his face, interjected with a cautious tone.

"Easy, Frank. This one used to be an Olympic kickboxer. She’s the sister of that sheriff.”

Frank snorted. “The one who shot herself? Coward’s way out, if you ask me.”

Sheila stiffened. The man had several inches—not to mention thirty or forty pounds—on her, but she didn’t care. The bigger they were, the harder they fell, and she couldn’t just ignore him talking about her sister that way.

“I’ll show you what cowardice looks like when I kick your ass,” she said.

The man leaned closer, glowering down at her. Sheila was about to knee him in the groin when, as if coming to a sudden decision, he grinned and leaned back, revealing yellowing teeth. “No need to get rowdy,” he said. “We’re all friends here.” He pulled out a twenty-dollar bill and slapped it on the bar. “For my new friend. Wouldn’t want her to feel unwelcome here.”

There were a few laughs and snickers as the man strolled away. Sheila watched him all the way until he had disappeared inside the restroom. Then she turned her attention back to the bartender.

"Alright," she said. "Now, where can I find Eddie Mills?"

The barkeeper wiped his hands with the rag, his tongue working something loose from his teeth.

“I’m not leaving until I get an answer,” Sheila said, sitting down again.

The barkeeper sighed. "You know, most cops I've met would've puffed their chests out, waved their badges around—and then pissed themselves when Mikey waltzed over. But you? You did the opposite. That takes guts."

Sheila waited, saying nothing.

The man sighed and glanced over at the clock. "There's a trailer park a few miles down the road," he said, reluctance tainting his gravelly voice. "Eddie's holed up there, last I heard. Unit 302. But you didn't hear it from me."

***

The drive to the trailer park was short but fraught with the kind of anticipation that made Sheila's heart thrum against her ribs. She navigated her cruiser through the maze of narrow lanes, squinting to make out the numbers on the trailers. Many were faded or covered in grime, rendering them illegible in the dim light.

She spotted a group of locals gathered around a crackling fire, the orange glow reflecting off their faces. They were an eclectic mix—weather-worn skin stretched over knotted muscles, clothes that told stories of hard labor and harder lives. Their laughter was rough, like the bark of dogs, and they passed around cans of beer with casual familiarity.

Sheila parked and got out. "Excuse me," she called out, stepping closer to the circle. Her badge wasn't visible, but something about her demeanor seemed to instantly set them on edge. "I'm looking for Unit 302. Can any of you point me in the right direction?"

One man, whose beard was a tangled thicket of gray and brown, snorted and took a swig from his can. "Why would we help a cop?" he asked, the challenge clear in his tone.

"I'm not here on official business," Sheila lied smoothly, though the skepticism in the eyes around the fire only deepened. "Just trying to find an old friend."

"Sounds like your problem, not ours," another man said, spitting near Sheila's feet.

"Listen," Sheila said, her patience fraying, "I just need—"

"Beat it, lady," a woman interjected, standing up to confront Sheila, her posture aggressive. "You come out here when you want to arrest someone, but when there’s a shooting or a house catches fire, forget about it. You’ve got better things to do. But you know what? We don’t need you—we can take care of ourselves.”

Sheila recognized the hostility for what it was—an insurmountable wall. Whatever police ordinarily responded to calls in this neighborhood, they certainly hadn’t cultivated good relations with the locals.

Without another word, Sheila backed away, her mind racing to find another way to locate Mills’s trailer. As she retreated, the group's laughter followed her, mocking and cold.

Climbing back into her car, she kept driving. She could hardly read the numbers on the trailers, though, not with the darkness and the general griminess of the trailers. Switching up her approach, she parked her cruiser alongside the cracked pavement and decided to proceed on foot.

Her boots crunched on discarded trash, the silence around her almost suffocating. Every instinct told her to be cautious, to be aware of every shadow that stretched across her path. The numbers on the trailers were faded, obscured by years of weather and neglect, and she had to strain her eyes to make them out.

As she turned a corner, a rusted sign with peeling paint announced '302' in crooked digits. Sheila's heart surged—this had to be it. But as she approached, she discovered she'd misread it.

The number she'd taken for a '0' was actually a faded '8.' This was 382—not the trailer she was looking for.

Sighing, Sheila resumed her search. The trailers seemed to close in around her, suffocating in their proximity, yet she pressed on. And then, there it was—trailer 302, standing alone like a sentinel at the end of a row. Its windows were dark, showing no signs of life.

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