Page 60 of Silent Smile

But what if there was more to it?

She pulled out her phone, scrolling to her father's number. As expected, it went straight to voicemail. She left a brief message: "Dad, we need to talk." She paused, then added: "It's about Mom. And Internal Affairs."

That would get his attention.

Pushing herself off the wall, Sheila straightened her uniform and squared her shoulders. She'd waited ten years for answers, but this new revelation only seemed to uncover more questions. But unless Mills was lying—and Sheila thought he was far too desperate to come up with such details on the fly, or to rehearse them so convincingly—one thing was becoming clear—her mother's death wasn't the simple act of revenge she'd imagined. It was part of something much bigger, something that had roots in her own family.

And someone, somewhere, was still willing to kill to keep those secrets buried.

EPILOGUE

The sun was still rising as Sheila pulled up to her childhood home, casting long shadows across the familiar front yard. The old maple tree still stood sentinel by the driveway, a tree she'd climbed countless times as a kid while her mother tended to the flower beds below.

Those flower beds were bare now. Gabriel had never quite mastered Henrietta's green thumb.

The two-story craftsman looked exactly as it had ten years ago, down to the deep green paint and white trim. Gabriel's stubborn refusal to change anything had initially frustrated Sheila. "You can't live in a museum," she'd told him once. But his reply had silenced her: "This was your mother's dream house. She spent five years designing every detail. I won't let them take that from her, too."

Them.She'd taken it as a vague reference to whoever was responsible for her mother's death… but was it possible her father had known exactly whom he was referring to?

Whatever the case, the house remained unchanged, a memorial to Henrietta Stone and the life that had been stolen from her. The only difference was the security system Gabriel had installed after her death—top of the line, with cameras covering every approach. Sheila noticed the red recording light blinking above the porch. Her father would know she'd been here.

Why did that make her uneasy?

She'd spent all night stewing on what Mills had told her: playing it over and over in her head, dissecting it, trying to decide whether or not she could believe him. The bottom line was that she needed to look into it. Maybe it was all nonsense, but she couldn't assume that. She needed to speak with her father.

And Finn… well, Finn was in the hospital, recovering. He'd want to know what was going on, but there was no sense telling him before she had anything substantial to report.

Sheila climbed out of her vehicle. The porch steps creaked in exactly the same places they always had. She raised her hand to knock, then hesitated. Through the decorative window in the front door, she could see the entrance hall was dark.

She knocked anyway. No answer.

She was fishing her phone from her pocket when a voice called out: "He's not home!"

Sheila turned to see Mr. Whitaker, their neighbor for the past thirty years, waving from his driveway next door. He was wearing his usual cardigan despite the warm morning.

"Evening, Mr. Whitaker," she called back.

"Come to check on your old man?" he asked, ambling over to the low fence that separated their properties. "He headed out yesterday. Had his fishing gear with him."

Sheila frowned. "Fishing? Did he say where?"

"Nope. But he usually hits Lake Powell this time of year. Said he needed a few days to clear his head." Mr. Whitaker squinted at her. "Everything okay? You look worried."

"Just need to talk to him about something," Sheila said, keeping her voice casual. "I'll try his cell again."

Mr. Whitaker nodded. "Tell him I'm still waiting on that rematch. He knows what I mean." With a final wave, he shuffled back toward his house, disappearing inside.

Sheila waited until his door closed, then looked up at her childhood home. The morning sunlight caught the eastern windows, making them gleam like fire. How many times had she seen that same effect while doing homework at the kitchen table, her mother humming as she cooked dinner?

Her mother. The memory surfaced suddenly—Henrietta, always worried about getting locked out, hiding a spare keyinside the antler of the brass deer statue that still stood in the flower bed. "Don't tell your father," she'd whispered to Sheila with a wink. "He thinks I'm being careless, inviting a break-in, but sometimes a woman needs a backup plan."

Sheila glanced around. No sign of Mr. Whitaker—or anyone else. It was her father's house, but given what she'd heard from Mills, she felt very much like an intruder here.

Moving quickly, she crossed to the flower bed. The brass deer was weathered with age, but when she lifted its head, the key was still there.

Her hands shook slightly as she unlocked the door. The house alarm chimed softly—Gabriel hadn't changed the code either. She quickly punched in her mother's birthday to silence it.

The entryway was dark and still. The early rays of sunlight caught dust motes dancing in the air. The house smelled exactly the same—old wood, leather furniture, and the lingering ghost of her mother's favorite lavender sachets.

---