Page 4 of Silent Ritual

"Police," she called out tentatively as she knocked on the door, her voice steady but met with only silence. After a moment of hesitation, she tried the latch and found it unlocked.

Inside, the trailer was a time capsule of recent activity. A half-eaten meal lay abandoned on the kitchen counter, attracting a squadron of flies. A flickering television cast erratic shadows across the cramped space, illuminating a threadbare sofa and a coffee table littered with various papers and empty beer cans.

Sheila stepped carefully over a pile of laundry, her eyes scanning for any sign of Eddie Mills or clues to his whereabouts. The bed was unmade, the sheets tangled in a way that suggested a hasty departure rather than a restful night. An ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts sat on the nightstand, the stale smell of tobacco hanging heavily in the air.

"Damn it," she muttered under her breath. She had hoped to confront Eddie, to finally get some answers about her mother's death, but he was gone.

Sheila's eyes darted across the cluttered mess of the trailer's interior, seeking something—anything—that might point to Eddie Mills’ next move. The dim light from the single bulb overhead cast long shadows, making the room feel even more desolate and abandoned. She moved methodically, her training as a detective guiding her through the chaos.

A pile of unopened mail sat atop the small kitchen counter, the top envelope postmarked over a week ago. Sheila rifled through them but found nothing of interest. Her gaze shifted to the fridge, its door plastered with magnets and yellowing notes. Most were mundane reminders, but one note caught her attention: a list of names and telephone numbers. Some of the names were first and last, but others had only first names, suggesting they were close friends or relatives.

Perhaps one of these people would know where to find Eddie.

Sheila took a picture of the list. She was about to do a second, more thorough search of the trailer when her phone vibrated in her pocket, jolting her back to the present. She glanced at the caller ID.

It was Finn, her partner.

"Stone," she answered tersely.

“Hey,” he said. “I just spoke with Hank.” He was referring to Hank Dawson, Coldwater’s interim sheriff.

“Uh-oh,” Sheila said. “That can’t be good—not when you say it like that.”

“Ever been to Mirage Salt Flats?”

Sheila considered. “As a kid, I think. Why?”

“Well, it’s about time you see it as an adult. I’ll pick you up in ten.”

“No, I’m not at home—but I can be back in twenty minutes.” She frowned, puzzled. “Why are we going to Mirage Salt Flats again?”

“Because a woman’s body was found there,” Finn said. “And the way she was found has got everyone spooked.”

CHAPTER TWO

The moment Finn Mercer slid into the passenger seat of the cruiser, a jolt of unfamiliar excitement zipped through Sheila Stone's veins.

She offered him a curt nod, her lips pressing together in a tight smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. The air between them, once filled with easy banter and the comfort of camaraderie, now crackled with a strange new energy. They had crossed an invisible line, venturing from colleagues to something more just days ago, and the shift left Sheila navigating their interactions with cautious uncertainty.

"Evening, Finn," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. She gripped the steering wheel as if it were a lifeline, pulling onto the highway with practiced ease.

Finn was an enigma wrapped in a uniform—a man who brought with him the sharp intellect of the streets of Philadelphia and the cool poise of a former fighter pilot. He possessed a confidence that wasn't boastful but rather a quiet certainty in his own capabilities. His close-cropped hair, the color of midnight, only accentuated the sharp angles of his jawline and the piercing gaze of his deep-set eyes. There was also the undeniable sense of loyalty he exuded, a trait that Sheila found both comforting and magnetic.

“So,” he said, “how was your weekend? After Friday night, I mean.”

Friday night had been their first date. They had gone out for drinks at a little-known speakeasy in the heart of town, a small place with a charmingly vintage vibe. Finn had insisted it was exactly her kind of place and, to her surprise, she’d found he was right.

“My weekend?” Sheila glanced at him, a ghost of a smile playing on her lips. “It was fine.”

Finn chuckled lightly. “Fine? That’s all I get?”

"I did some training with Star.” Fourteen-year-old Star, who reminded Sheila so much of herself at that age. She knew she couldn’t fix Star’s problems—not least of all her home life—but she could provide Star with someone she could count on, not to mention someone she could spar with when she needed an outlet for her anger.

"How'd it go?"

"It's a work-in-progress." The truth was that Star, while initially excited about the prospect of kickboxing, had balked at all the discipline involved, especially the emphasis on footwork. She wanted to start by practicing roundhouse kicks, not learning the fundamentals. But if Sheila was going to train Star, she was going to do it right.

She just hoped Star would stick around long enough to get to some of the more exciting sessions.

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