Page 24 of Silent Neighbor

Dawson cleared his throat, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "Listen, Sheila, there's something else I wanted to ask you. Did you end up applying for the sheriff position, by any chance?"

Sheila hesitated, still uncertain whether she wanted the position or not. "I did, actually."

Dawson's face broke into a warm smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "I'm glad to hear it. Between you and me, I'd rather put in my nine-to-five and spend the rest of my time fishing. This interim gig is more stress than I signed up for."

Sheila smiled back. "You're really selling the job."

Dawson laughed. "Oh, I'm just not cut out for this sort of thing. You, on the other hand—you'll make a hell of a sheriff, Stone. I'd put money on you getting the job."

As Dawson left, closing the door behind him with a soft click, Sheila found herself grappling with mixed emotions. Did she really want the position? Was she really ready to step into Natalie's shoes?

Finn's voice broke through her reverie. "Hey, what do you say we grab some food? We've been at this for hours." He stretched, his joints popping audibly in the quiet room, while his eyes watched her closely.

Something in his gaze made Sheila uneasy. She had a feeling he wanted to talk about something, and she had a pretty good idea what it might be. His comment at Holbrook's house came floating back to her: You could raise a big family in a place this size.

"Actually," Sheila said, perhaps a bit too quickly, "I'd rather get takeout so we can keep working. Would you mind picking something up while I make a call?"

Disappointment flashed across Finn's face, but he nodded, grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair. "Sure, no problem. The usual?"

"That'd be great, thanks."

As Finn left, the door closing behind him with a soft thud, Sheila stepped outside. The evening air was cool against her skin, a welcome relief from the stuffy confines of the station. The sun was setting, painting the sky in brilliant shades of orange and pink, the clouds edged with gold. She pulled out her phone and dialed her dad's number, the familiar digits a comforting routine.

Gabriel Stone answered on the third ring. In the background, Sheila could hear the clinking of metal and the soft whir of what sounded like a small motor. "Hey, sweetheart," Gabe said, his gruff voice warm with affection. "Just a sec, let me turn this off."

The mechanical sounds ceased, replaced by the rustling of movement. "Sorry about that," Gabe continued. "I was just working on a carpentry project in the garage. How are you doing?"

"I'm good, Dad," Sheila said, realizing as she spoke how much she'd missed hearing his voice. She leaned against the rough brick wall of the station, letting its solidity ground her. "Busy with a new case. How about you? Making another of those birdhouses you like so much?"

Gabe chuckled, the sound punctuated by the soft rasp of sandpaper against wood. "You know me too well. Just finished the roof today. You should see it, Sheila. It's got these tiny cedar shingles—"

"Let me guess," Sheila interrupted, a smile tugging at her lips. "You made each one by hand?"

"My daughter, the detective," Gabe said. The pride in his voice was palpable. "It's delicate work, but there's something satisfying about it. How about you? How's work?"

Sheila's smile faded slightly. She pushed off from the wall, pacing a few steps. "It's... challenging. We've got this case—"

The sandpapering sound stopped abruptly. "The one with the climber?"

"Yeah," Sheila said with a sigh. "Heard about it on the news?"

"Just a bit ago, yeah. Making any progress?"

"We're following some leads, but..." She trailed off, biting her lip.

"But you can't talk about it," Gabe finished for her. "I understand, sweetheart. Just remember, you've got good instincts. Trust them."

Sheila nodded, even though her father couldn't see her. The knot in her shoulders loosened a bit. "Thanks, Dad. I needed to hear that."

The gentle scraping resumed in the background. Neither of them spoke for several moments.

"So," Gabe said, a hint of mischief in his voice, "how are things going with Finn?"

Sheila hesitated, her free hand absently picking at a loose thread on her sleeve. She'd been purposely vague about her relationship with Finn in her conversations with her dad. But now, feeling the weight of everything pressing down on her, she found herself wanting to confide in him.

"Actually, Dad, that's part of why I called," she admitted, her voice soft. "Things with Finn are... well, they're getting serious. Maybe too serious."

"What do you mean by 'too serious'?" Gabe asked.

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