Page 9 of Silent Home

Sheila's phone buzzed—a text from Finn:Finished with Mara.Need to talk.Tacos?

Standing, Sheila handed Charlotte her card."If you think of anything else, no matter how small it seems..."

"Of course."Charlotte picked up her chalk again, though Sheila suspected it was more for comfort than any intention to work."Sheriff Stone?Jessica...she never got to perform on a real stage.But she had such talent, such heart.Whatever happened, however, she ended up in that dress..."She swallowed hard."She deserved better than to become someone's prop."

Sheila paused at the door, looking back at the room full of costumes—hundreds of outfits designed to help tell other people's stories.

Whose story had the killer been trying to tell?Their own, or someone else's?

CHAPTER FOUR

Sheila found Finn at one of the food trucks—a converted Airstream trailer specializing in Korean fusion tacos.He'd already claimed one of the picnic tables scattered along Main Street, a spread of food laid out before him.The October sun caught his sandy hair as he looked up, offering a tired smile.

"Thought you might be hungry," he said, pushing a container toward her."Kimchi fries.The guy says they're his specialty."

Sheila sat, grateful for both the food and the moment of normalcy.Around them, the festival was in full swing, the crowd seemingly unaware of the tragedy in Theater Seven.Film students with expensive cameras captured b-roll of the event.A group of indie rockers did a sound check on the street stage.A man adjusted a professional camera rig, taking in the festivities with a trained eye.The air smelled of food truck exhaust, fresh coffee, and woodsmoke from someone grilling Korean short ribs.

There were no signs at all that the festival would soon be shut down.Still, Sheila wasn't entirely surprised.It would take time for Rider to talk to the right people, decide what message they were going to send.Sheila didn't feel the need to intervene.Yet.

"Tell me about Mara," she said to Finn as she picked up a fork.

Finn's expression sobered."She was working the morning shift at Owl Street.Place was packed—apparently half the festival crowd thinks it's the only decent coffee shop in town."He took a bite of his taco, gathering his thoughts."When I told her about Jessica...I've done death notifications before, but this was different.She just...crumpled."

"They were close?"

"Used to be.Grew up together, did community theater, shared the same dreams."He wiped sauce from his chin."Mara said they'd been drifting apart lately, especially after 'The Winter Palace.'"

A pair of film critics walked past their table, arguing passionately about aspect ratios and color grading.Somewhere nearby, someone was giving an interview, their voice carrying over the crowd: "This festival represents the future of independent cinema..."

"Charlotte mentioned that film," Sheila said."Said Jessica took the rejection hard."

"According to Mara, it was more complicated than that.Jessica felt betrayed."Finn lowered his voice."She thought she had the role locked down.Someone had implied she would get it—or at least, that's what she believed."

"So why did that drive a wedge between Jessica and Mara?If Jessica didn't get the role, I mean?"

"According to Mara, Jessica was just… different after that.Obsessive, secretive.Mara tried to reconnect, but Jessica seemed like a different person.Jessica started spending a lot of time with the film's director.Private meetings, late-night conversations.Mara thought maybe they were planning another project together."

Sheila watched a street performer juggle bowling pins, his audience seemingly oblivious to the police cars still parked behind the theater."Did Mara know the director's name?"

"Bradley Greenwald."

The name caught Sheila by surprise."The same Bradley Greenwald who's premiering his new documentary tonight?"she asked.

Finn nodded."Mara said he's been holed up in the Mountain View Hotel all week, doing press interviews.Hasn't set foot in the theater since he arrived."

A festival volunteer hurried past, carrying a stack of programs.The cover featured a stylized image of mountains against a blood-red sky, with the text "PEAK MOUNTAIN FILM FESTIVAL" overlaid in stark white letters.Beneath that, in smaller print: "Featuring the world premiere of 'Echoes of Silence' by Bradley Greenwald."

"We need to talk to him," Sheila said.

"Already tried.His assistant says he's not taking meetings."Finn's eyes narrowed."But there's a Q&A session scheduled for two o'clock.Part of the festival's 'Conversations with Directors' series."

Sheila checked her watch.Just past noon."Where?"

"Theater Three."Finn gathered their empty containers."Though if Greenwald's involved in this—the murder, I mean—he might not show.And that's assuming the festival hasn't been completely shut down by then."

A group of film students passed by, arguing about shot composition and the merits of practical effects over CGI.One of them carried a vintage Super 8 camera, treating it with the reverence usually reserved for religious artifacts.The festival seemed to attract true believers—people who lived and breathed cinema, who saw the world through an imaginary lens.

Was Jessica's murderer here right now, walking in plain sight?

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