Page 41 of Silent Neighbor

CHAPTER TWENTY

Sheila stepped out of the cramped trailer, the metal steps creaking ominously under her weight. Another dead end.

The pre-dawn air hit her like a slap to the face, crisp and carrying the pungent scent of sage mixed with the underlying mustiness of the desert. She took a deep breath, trying to clear her head after hours of fruitless interviews in stuffy, confined spaces.

Finn joined her, unsuccessfully stifling a yawn. "Well, that was less than helpful," he muttered, running a hand through his disheveled hair. In the dim light of the trailer park's single streetlamp, Sheila could see the dark circles under his eyes, a mirror of her own exhaustion.

Sheila nodded, her eyes scanning the trailer park. The neat rows of mobile homes, their windows dark in the early morning hours, seemed to mock their lack of progress. Christmas lights, left up well past their season, twinkled forlornly on a few of the homes, adding a surreal touch to the scene.

They'd spent most of the night tracking down different members of Lucas's climbing group, and thus far, they hadn't learned anything useful. It was good to scratch names off a list, yes, but Sheila was keenly aware that the killer had taken two lives in the course of the same day. How much longer before he struck again?

As they returned to their vehicle, a nondescript sedan that had seen better days, Sheila pulled out the crumpled list of names. The paper was soft from constant handling, the names blurring before her tired eyes.

"How many more do we have?" Finn asked, his voice rough with fatigue.

"A few dozen," Sheila said, then lowered the list. She sighed heavily, leaning against the car. The metal was cool against her back, grounding her in the moment.

"You sure this is the best approach?" Finn asked.

"I don't know. But it can't be a coincidence that both victims were members of this group. The killer has to be connected to them somehow."

"You think the killer is one of them?" Finn asked, his brow furrowed in concentration.

"Maybe. Or maybe the killer is targeting the group for some reason. I don't know what to think anymore." Sheila rubbed her eyes.

Then a new idea occurred to her, and she straightened up. "Let's shift our focus. Instead of going through the list one by one, I want to concentrate on the most promising suspects. Can you run background checks on the remaining members?"

Finn nodded, pulling out his tablet. "On it. What are you thinking?"

"I'm not sure yet," Sheila admitted. "But there has to be something we're missing. Some connection we haven't seen yet."

As Finn began his search, fingers tapping rapidly on the screen, Sheila slid into the driver's seat. The familiar smell of old leather and stale coffee greeted her, a small comfort in the uncertainty of the night. She started the engine, the rumble a counterpoint to the quiet of the sleeping trailer park.

As she drove, navigating the empty streets of pre-dawn Coldwater, her eyes were drawn to the landscape around them. Utah's unique beauty surrounded them, even in the darkness. The silhouettes of towering red rock formations loomed against the slowly lightening sky, their shapes both majestic and slightly menacing in the half-light. In the distance, the snow-capped peaks of the Wasatch Range were just becoming visible, towering above the desert lowlands.

The dichotomy of the landscape struck Sheila as oddly fitting for their current situation. They were caught between the harsh reality of the murders and the lofty goal of bringing the killer to justice, much like the meeting of desert and mountain before them.

Sheila's thoughts drifted as she drove, the monotony of the road blending with her exhaustion. The white lines of the highway hypnotized her, and she had to shake herself awake more than once. She knew she was dangerously tired, and Finn was too. But they couldn't stop now, not when they might be close to a breakthrough.

Besides, the killer didn't seem to be stopping, did he?

Finn's voice broke through her reverie, startling her back to full alertness. "I've got something. Mark Thompson, thirty-five. He's got a record of trespassing and vandalism, all related to extreme sports. Broke into a closed ski resort last winter, spray-painted his tag on El Capitan in Yosemite."

Sheila shook her head, her lips pursing in thought. "Sounds more like a kindred spirit to our victims than a killer. Reckless, sure, but not violent. Who else?"

"Okay, how about this one? Cindy Liang, twenty-nine. She's a chemist with access to some pretty dangerous substances. Works for a pharmaceutical company developing new anesthetics."

"Interesting, but not necessarily relevant. Any history of violence? Complaints from coworkers? Unstable behavior?"

"No, nothing like that," Finn admitted, scrolling through his tablet. "By all accounts, she's a model employee. Volunteers at an animal shelter on weekends."

Sheila was about to suggest they move on when Finn spoke up again, his voice taking on an edge of excitement. "Wait, here's something. Robert Crane, forty-two. He's got an interesting background."

"Go on."

"He's a night shift worker at a local factory. But get this—he used to be a professional climber. Competed internationally, won a few big competitions. But he dropped off the scene about five years ago, right around the time these extreme climbing groups started gaining popularity online."

"Any idea why he quit?"

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