Page 27 of Silent Neighbor

As Sheila carefully examined the scene, something caught her eye. Beneath a scrubby desert sage bush, its silvery-green leaves rustling gently in the breeze, was a dark object. The bush's pungent aroma filled her nostrils as she crouched down for a closer look. Sheila snapped on a pair of latex gloves, the material tight against her skin, and carefully reached under the bush.

Her fingers closed around cool metal and glass. She pulled out her find, holding it up to the light. "It's a cell phone," she said, turning to Finn. "Could be the victim's."

Finn's eyebrows shot up, a glimmer of hope in his tired eyes. "That could be a goldmine of information."

"If we can unlock it," Sheila agreed.

"Should we hand it over to Dwayne?"

Sheila shook her head. "He's busy enough as it is. Let's hold onto it and check out Brad's apartment. Maybe, just maybe, he wrote the password down somewhere—and who knows what we might find on it. I have a feeling the killer didn't intend for us to find it."

***

Hours later, Sheila and Finn stood in the living room of Brad Blackwell's small apartment. It was a tidy space, the walls adorned with posters of extreme sports and far-flung destinations.

The landlady, a nervous woman in her sixties with a floral housecoat and curlers in her hair, hovered anxiously in the doorway. Her hands fluttered like startled birds as she spoke, her voice thin and reedy. "I still can't believe it," she kept muttering. "Brad was such a nice young man. Always paid his rent on time."

Sheila tried to tune out the woman's rambling as she surveyed the space. It hardly looked lived-in at all, which only emphasized what they already knew of Brad's love of the outdoors. Clearly, his life had been lived more outside this space than within it.

Then her attention was drawn to a room at the back. The door was closed, a "Do Not Disturb" sign hanging from the knob. When Sheila opened it, she felt like she'd stepped into another world. This room was Brad's studio, where he apparently filmed some of his videos when he wasn't out in the wilderness. The space was immaculate, the air smelling of electronics and new plastic.

Every piece of equipment was in its place, gleaming under the soft glow of LED lights. The walls were lined with neatly organized shelves of gear—cameras, microphones, drones, and various pieces of climbing equipment, all arranged with military precision. A top-of-the-line computer setup dominated one corner, multiple monitors displaying editing software and social media analytics.

"Quite a setup he's got here," Finn murmured, his fingers trailing over a high-end camera.

Sheila nodded. "It's clear where his passions lay."

As they were examining the studio, a sharp ringtone cut through the air. Sheila turned to see Brad's phone—the one they'd found at the crime scene—lighting up on the kitchen counter where they'd placed it.

She hesitated for a moment, exchanging a glance with Finn. Then, decision made, she strode over and answered it. "Hello?"

There was a pause on the other end, the silence heavy with unasked questions. "Who is this?" a gruff male voice asked, a mix of confusion and worry evident in his tone. "Where's Brad?"

Sheila took a deep breath, steeling herself for the conversation to come. "This is Deputy Sheila Stone with the Coldwater County Sheriff's Department. May I ask who's calling?"

Another pause, longer this time. When the man spoke again, his voice was tight with barely contained fear. "This is Robert Blackwell. Brad's father. He... he left me a voicemail earlier. I've been trying to reach him. Is he... is everything okay?"

Sheila closed her eyes, resisting the urge to sigh into the phone. "I think we'd better have this conversation face-to-face."

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