Page 43 of Silent Smile

They took off after Mick, weaving through the crowded terminal. Mick glanced back, saw them in pursuit, and broke into a run. He darted around a group of tourists, nearly bowling over a child in his haste.

"CCSD! Stop!" Finn shouted, but Mick only ran faster.

They chased him past souvenir shops and coffee stands, Mick's desperation lending him speed. He knocked over a luggage cart, sending bags spilling across their path. Sheila leapt over the obstacle, her focus solely on their quarry.

Mick veered suddenly, crashing through a "Staff Only" door. Sheila and Finn followed and soon found themselves in a maze of service corridors. Their footsteps echoed off the bare concrete walls as they pursued Mick through the bowels of the airport.

Left, right, another right—Sheila struggled to keep track of their twists and turns. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered, creating a strobe-like effect that added to the surreal nature of the chase.

Finally, Mick burst through another door, emerging onto the sun-drenched tarmac. The roar of jet engines filled the air as he sprinted across the open space, heading for a fence at the perimeter.

"Mick, stop!" Sheila yelled, her lungs burning from the exertion. "There's nowhere to go!"

But Mick kept running, his sneakers pounding on the asphalt. He reached the fence and began to climb, the chain links rattling under his weight.

Sheila put on a burst of speed, closing the distance. Just as Mick was about to clear the top of the fence, she lunged, grabbing his ankle. The rough metal of the fence scraped her arms, but she held on.

Mick kicked out, nearly catching Sheila in the face, but she managed to dodge the blow. Finn arrived a moment later, and together they dragged Mick down from the fence. He struggled fiercely, his elbow catching Sheila in the ribs, but they managed to pin him to the ground.

"Mick O'Donnell," Sheila panted, snapping handcuffs around his wrists, "you're under arrest for the murders of Amanda Weller and Carl Donovan."

"Shit," Mick said, his face pressed against the hot asphalt. "I told Jason this would happen!"

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

Sheila stood in the narrow observation corridor of the Coldwater County Sheriff's Department, her eyes moving between the two interrogation rooms. On her left, Mick O'Donnell sat hunched over a metal table, his fingers drumming an erratic rhythm on the scratched surface. On her right, Jason Hawke leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, an air of forced nonchalance about him.

The time had come to unravel their conflicting stories. Jason had already pointed the finger at Mick, claiming his roommate was behind the murders. But something about his story didn't sit right with Sheila. Too many convenient explanations, too many gaps in the timeline.

"How do you want to play this?" Finn asked, coming up beside her. His voice was low, tired. They'd been up for over thirty hours straight, running on coffee and adrenaline.

"Let's press Hawke on the details," she said. "His story about Mick being the killer sounds good on the surface, but the timing doesn't add up. I want to see how he handles being challenged on the specifics."

Finn nodded, his face a mask of professional focus. But Sheila didn't miss the slight hesitation, the unspoken question in his eyes. She sensed he wanted to do things differently but was biting his tongue.

"Something on your mind?" she asked.

"Nothing worth getting into right now," he said.

Taking a deep breath, pushing her personal feelings aside, Sheila entered Hawke's room. The door closed behind her with a soft click, sealing them in the sterile, windowless space. Hawke's eyes followed her as she took a seat across from him, his expression carefully neutral.

"Mr. Hawke," Sheila began, "let's talk about these specific claims you've made about Mick. You said he pushed to expand your plant operation after you were fired. Tell me exactly how that happened."

Hawke shrugged, the movement too casual to be genuine. "I already told you everything."

"No, you've given us broad accusations without details," Sheila said, leaning forward. "If Mick was really running things, you must have seen evidence. Bank transactions, meetings with buyers, something concrete."

A flicker of uncertainty crossed Hawke's face. "It wasn't like that. Mick kept the business side separate. Said it was safer that way."

"Safer for whom?" Sheila pressed. "For him, or for you? Because right now it looks awfully convenient that you can accuse him of being the mastermind without providing any proof."

Hawke's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "Look, I get why you're skeptical. But think about it—if I was really behind everything, why wouldn't I have run at the first sign of you people? Why stick around to face the music?"

"Maybe because running would make you look guilty," Sheila countered.

Hawke grunted and said nothing.

"Let's talk about the night Amanda Weller died," Sheila said. "You claimed you were at the Rusty Nail until closing, but the bartender says you left around 11 PM. That's a significant gap in your timeline, Jason."

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