Page 6 of Silent Neighbor

CHAPTER TWO

Sheila shifted uncomfortably in her metal folding chair, acutely aware of the eyes that kept darting her way. She had never wanted so badly to be anonymous.

I should be interrogating Mills, not sitting here in a town meeting, she thought. But she knew what Finn would say: There was nothing they could do, not until Mills was ready to talk. If he chose to remain silent, that was his right.

And in the meantime, she had to find a way to be present. She couldn't be a mindless zombie just because she was so close to solving her mother's murder.

The Coldwater Community Center buzzed with hushed conversations, the air heavy with anticipation and the lingering scent of coffee from the ancient percolator in the corner. She tugged at the sleeve of her well-worn leather jacket, a remnant from her kickboxing days, wishing she could disappear into the crowd of familiar faces.

Mayor Thompson, a portly man with a receding hairline and kind eyes, cleared his throat, silencing the room. "As you all know," he began, his voice carrying easily through the small space, "we're here to discuss the pressing matter of appointing a new sheriff for Coldwater County."

Sheila's stomach clenched. It had been over half a year since Natalie's suicide, but the wound still felt raw. She glanced around the room, noting the somber expressions on the faces of her neighbors and friends. They'd all been touched by Natalie's life—and her death.

"Natalie Stone served this community with distinction," the mayor continued, his voice catching slightly. "Her loss is felt deeply by us all."

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd. Sheila caught snippets of conversation around her, each word a dagger to her heart.

"Such a tragedy..."

"She was the best sheriff we ever had..."

"Who could possibly fill her shoes?"

Sheila's mind wandered, memories flooding back unbidden. Natalie, two years her senior, had always been the golden child. Straight-A student, captain of the basketball team, undefeated boxing champion in high school. And then the Olympic gold medal in kickboxing four years ago, followed by her meteoric rise through the ranks of the sheriff's department.

A bittersweet smile tugged at Sheila's lips as she remembered the day Natalie won gold. She'd been there in the stands, cheering louder than anyone, even as her own dreams of Olympic glory lay shattered. Sheila had tried to follow in her sister's footsteps, pouring everything into her own kickboxing career. But when she lost her Olympic match, it felt like the final nail in the coffin of her ambitions.

How could she ever measure up to Natalie's legacy?

The mayor's voice pulled her back to the present. "We need someone who understands this community, someone with the strength and integrity to lead our sheriff's department."

More eyes turned to Sheila, and she felt her cheeks burn under their scrutiny. She knew what they were thinking: Here was another Stone, cut from the same cloth as Natalie and their father, Gabriel. But they didn't understand. They couldn't see the doubt that plagued her, the fear of never being good enough.

"Now, we have some candidates in mind," Mayor Thompson continued, "but we're open to suggestions from the community. This decision affects us all, and we want to ensure we choose the right person to protect and serve Coldwater."

Sheila's neighbor, Mrs. Hendricks, a kindly widow with silver hair and sharp eyes, leaned over. "You should apply, dear," she whispered, patting Sheila's arm. "It's in your blood, after all."

Sheila forced a smile, her heart racing. Apply? The very thought made her palms sweat. She wasn't Natalie. She couldn't be Natalie. The weight of expectation felt suffocating.

As the meeting progressed, Sheila thought about Natalie's journey—the triumphs and the struggles, the shooting that had left her sister wheelchair-bound, robbing her of the physical prowess she'd always prided herself on. Sheila remembered the late-night phone calls, Natalie's voice tight with pain and frustration as she grappled with her new reality.

Had any of them, herself included, truly understood the depth of her sister's suffering?

The meeting began to wind down, and people started to file out, their voices a low hum of speculation and concern. Sheila stood, ready to escape, to retreat to the solitude of her small apartment where she wouldn't have to face the weight of everyone's expectations.

But a hand on her shoulder stopped her. "Sheila, got a minute?" It was Hank Dawson, the interim sheriff. His mustache twitched as he smiled, but his eyes were serious, carrying the weight of the responsibility he'd shouldered since Natalie's death.

She nodded, following him to a quiet corner of the room. The community center was emptying quickly, leaving behind the lingering scent of coffee and the echo of concerned voices.

Hank ran a hand through his thinning hair, a gesture Sheila recognized as a sign of his discomfort. "Look, I know this isn't easy," he began, his voice low and earnest. "But I think you should consider applying for the position."

Sheila swallowed hard—she wasn't ready for this conversation. "Me?" she asked. "But I'm not… I mean, I don't have the experience. I'm not Natalie."

"No, you're not," Hank said. "But you've got skills, Sheila. Your kickboxing background, your understanding of the community. And let's face it, you've got law enforcement in your blood."

Sheila thought of her father, Gabriel—former kickboxer and cop, a man whose approval she'd spent her entire life chasing. She thought of Natalie, who had seemed invincible until that fateful shooting that left her in a wheelchair.

Until the day she decided she couldn't bear it anymore.

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