Page 31 of Silent Neighbor

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The porch light flickered to life as Sheila and Finn approached the Holbrook residence. The night air was cool and crisp, carrying the faint scent of blooming jasmine from a nearby trellis. Crickets chirped softly in the meticulously trimmed hedges.

Staring at the house, Sheila couldn't help but think of Finn's earlier comment about raising a family. She then thought of her father's reminder to her that, even if Finn were to get down on one knee and propose to her, she could always say no.

Still… was it ever really that easy? In the pressure of the moment—under the bright lights, so to speak—it was easy for thoughts to become murky. She didn't want to get put into a situation where she might have to choose between a future she wasn't ready for and possibly ruining a relationship she was just getting comfortable with.

Dismissing these thoughts with a shake of her head, Sheila raised her hand to knock, her knuckles hovering just inches from the heavy oak door. Before she could make contact, however, the door swung open with a soft creak of well-oiled hinges.

Karen Holbrook stood in the doorway, her face a mask of barely concealed irritation. "You again?" she said, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. "I can't believe this. We're in the middle of after-dinner drinks. Can't this wait until a more reasonable hour?"

The clink of glasses and murmur of conversation drifted from somewhere inside the house, underlining Karen's point. Sheila opened her mouth to respond, but Karen was already moving to close the door, her manicured hand gripping the edge tightly.

Just as it was about to shut in their faces, another hand appeared, gently but firmly pushing it back open. The hand was weathered and calloused, telling a story of a life spent outdoors despite the obvious wealth of its owner.

Marcus Holbrook stepped into view, a conciliatory smile on his face. His salt-and-pepper hair was slightly mussed, as if he'd run his hand through it in frustration moments before. "It's alright, Karen," he said. "I'll just step outside and speak with the deputies for a moment. Why don't you go back to our guests?"

Karen's eyes darted between her husband and the deputies, her displeasure evident in the tight set of her jaw and the narrowing of her eyes. With a huff, she turned on her heel and disappeared into the house, leaving Marcus alone in the doorway.

He stepped out onto the porch, quietly closing the door behind him. The subtle scent of expensive cologne wafted in the air around him. "How can I help you, deputies?" he asked, his tone friendly but guarded, like a man used to navigating delicate social situations.

Sheila pulled out her phone and brought up the photo of the pitons from the crime scene. "Mr. Holbrook, we were hoping you could take a look at these," she said, holding the screen out for him to see.

Marcus leaned in, his eyes narrowing as he studied the image. "Interesting," he murmured, his breath fogging the screen slightly. "These are definitely old. They've seen a lot of use, that's for sure."

He straightened up, a thoughtful expression on his face, his hand unconsciously stroking his chin. "And whoever used them did so expertly. You can see the wear patterns—they knew exactly how to place them for maximum efficiency and safety. And it's clear they've been well-maintained."

"Does anything else stand out to you?" Finn asked.

"Yes, as a matter of fact. The ropes, too, are expertly tied. This is the work of someone who really knows what they're doing."

Sheila nodded, not particularly surprised by this. "Do you have any idea who might own pitons like these?"

Marcus shrugged, his hands slipping into the pockets of his casual slacks. The fabric pulled slightly, hinting at the athletic build hidden beneath the veneer of casual wealth. "It's hard to say. There are a number of people who've kept climbing gear in their families for generations. It's a point of pride for some, a connection to their climbing heritage. And then there are others who just like to collect old gear, more for the historical value than for any practical use."

"Do you know anyone locally who collects this kind of gear?" Finn asked. His voice was calm, but Sheila could hear the undercurrent of excitement. They were onto something—she could feel it.

Marcus was quiet for a moment, his gaze drifting out over the darkened street as he thought. The silence stretched, broken only by the distant hoot of an owl. "You know," he said finally, his voice thoughtful, "there's an old-timer in the area who might be able to tell you more. Guy by the name of Tom Forrester. He's been climbing these parts for longer than I've been alive, and he's got quite a collection of vintage gear."

Sheila felt a spark of excitement at this potential lead, her heart rate picking up slightly. "That's great, Mr. Holbrook. Could you give us his address?"

Marcus nodded, reciting an address on the outskirts of town. But then he held up a hand, a note of caution in his voice. "I should warn you, though. Tom turns in early—he'll be in bed by now. And he's not exactly the most welcoming fellow, especially to strangers. If you go knocking on his door at this hour, well... let's just say you won't get as warm a reception as you got from me."

***

The streets of Coldwater were quiet as they drove back toward the center of town. Streetlights cast pools of amber light at regular intervals, illuminating empty sidewalks and darkened storefronts. The occasional late-night dog walker or shift worker hurrying home were the only signs of life in the sleeping town.

Finn broke the silence first, his voice sounding unnaturally loud in the quiet car. "So, what do you think? Should we head back to the station, look into a different lead?"

Sheila was quiet for a moment. The case, the mysterious pitons, the old-timer they needed to talk to—it all swirled together in a confusing mass. Then she remembered Star's text from earlier, about wanting to have a conversation. A pang of guilt shot through her—with everything going on, she'd almost forgotten.

"Actually," she said, "I think I should head home. See what Star wants to talk about. We can reconnect in the morning, talk to this Forrester guy then."

Finn nodded, though Sheila thought she detected a hint of disappointment in his expression. The streetlights passing overhead cast alternating patterns of light and shadow across his face, making it hard to read his expression. "Yeah, that makes sense. Want me to come with you?"

Sheila shook her head, perhaps a bit too quickly. "No, that's okay. I think this might be something Star wants to discuss one-on-one. I'll drop you at the station."

They rode in companionable silence for a while, the rhythmic swish of the wipers the only sound as a light drizzle began to fall. The raindrops caught the glow of the streetlights, creating a shimmering curtain that blurred the edges of the world outside. The effect was almost dreamlike, adding to the surreal quality of the night.

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