Page 19 of Silent Neighbor

CHAPTER EIGHT

Sheila whistled low as she and Finn pulled up to Marcus Holbrook's address.

"This is someplace," Finn said, his eyes wide as he took in the surroundings. "Hard to believe a climbing instructor lives here."

The house was a sprawling, modern mansion set back from the street, its sleek lines and floor-to-ceiling windows a stark contrast to the more traditional homes in the area. A meticulously manicured lawn stretched out before it, complete with a bubbling fountain and artfully arranged topiaries. The driveway was paved with imported Italian stones, their surface gleaming in the late afternoon sun.

Sheila nodded, her brow furrowed. Something didn't add up. "Maybe he has a trust fund on the side?"

Finn shrugged. "Anything's possible, I guess."

As they walked up the winding driveway, Sheila couldn't help but notice the top-of-the-line security system discreetly installed around the property. Motion sensors, cameras, and what looked like a biometric scanner at the front gate all spoke of someone who valued their privacy—or had something to hide.

Finn's voice took on a wistful tone. "Can you imagine living in a place like this? Coming home to this every day? You could raise a big family in a place this size."

Sheila felt a twinge of discomfort at Finn's words. She got the distinct impression he was hinting at a possible future for the two of them, and it made her uneasy. They'd only been dating for a short time, and while things were good, Sheila wasn't ready to think that far ahead. She wanted to focus on the case at hand, not daydream about domestic bliss.

As they approached the front door, a dog started barking inside the house. The sound was high-pitched and frantic, like a small dog with a big attitude. Sheila rang the doorbell, which chimed with an elaborate melody that sounded more like a musical performance than a simple alert.

After a moment, the door opened to reveal a woman in her late thirties, struggling to hold back a small, yapping Pomeranian. The woman was tall and slender, with perfectly coiffed blonde hair and impeccable makeup. She wore designer jeans and a silk blouse that probably cost more than Sheila made in a month. She looked more like a socialite than the wife of a climbing instructor.

The Pomeranian, despite its size, was doing its best to look fierce. Its fluffy fur was standing on end, making it look like an angry orange cotton ball. It barked incessantly, showing tiny teeth that seemed more comical than threatening.

"Can I help you?" the woman asked, her voice cool and slightly annoyed. She had to raise her voice to be heard over the dog's yapping.

Sheila flashed her badge. "I'm Deputy Stone, and this is Deputy Mercer. We're here to speak with Marcus Holbrook."

The woman's expression hardened, her perfectly sculpted eyebrows drawing together. "Marcus isn't well. He's resting."

"I'm afraid this is important, ma'am," Sheila pressed. "We need to speak with him regarding an ongoing investigation."

"Do you have a warrant?" the woman asked, arching a perfectly shaped eyebrow. The Pomeranian had quieted somewhat, but was still growling low in its throat, eyeing the deputies suspiciously.

Finn shook his head. "No, but—"

"Then I'm afraid you can't come in," the woman said. "Good day." With that, she closed the door in their faces, the sound of the lock engaging clearly audible.

Sheila stood there for a moment, stunned by the abrupt dismissal. She exchanged a glance with Finn, who looked equally taken aback.

"Well, that went well," Finn muttered.

Sheila wasn't about to give up so easily, however. As she was about to suggest they try again, she heard a faint sound coming from around the side of the house. It sounded like... a golf club hitting a ball.

"This way," she said to Finn, already moving.

They made their way around the building, the manicured lawn giving way to an even more impressive backyard. A sparkling infinity pool stretched out before them, its edge seeming to merge with the distant horizon. To their left was a fully equipped outdoor kitchen, and to their right, a putting green that looked like it belonged on a professional golf course.

A man was there, lining up a shot. He was so focused on his game that he didn't notice their approach. Sheila called out to him, but he didn't seem to hear.

"Marcus Holbrook?" she called louder.

The man looked up, startled. He was in his early forties, with salt-and-pepper hair and the lean, muscular build of an experienced climber. He wore expensive-looking golf attire, a far cry from the practical clothing Sheila would have expected from a climbing instructor.

He set down his golf club and walked over to them. "Can I help you?" he asked, his tone polite but wary.

"Mr. Holbrook?" Sheila called out, her voice carrying across the manicured lawn. "I'm Deputy Sheila Stone, and this is my partner, Deputy Finn Mercer. We're with the Coldwater County Sheriff's Department."

Marcus straightened, his golf club dangling loosely at his side. He squinted against the late afternoon sun, his brow furrowing as he took in their badges.

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