Page 48 of Silent Home

Moving with deliberate slowness, Sheila drew her Glock and placed it on the passenger seat.

"Good.Now the backup piece in your ankle holster."

She hesitated for just a moment, but the pressure against her seat remained steady.She reached down, removed her backup weapon, and placed it beside the first.

"Now get out.Leave your phone and keys."

Gritting her teeth, she stepped out into the cold night.The wind had picked up, carrying the scent of wood smoke from a distant farmhouse.

"Walk toward the field," the man said, his voice carrying through the open door."If you turn around in the next five minutes, I'll shoot.If you try to run, I'll shoot.Just walk straight ahead and keep walking."

Sheila began walking, her shadow stretching long before her in the truck's headlights.Each step took her farther from her weapons, her phone, any chance of fighting back.But she could feel his presence behind her, monitoring every movement.

She passed through the beam of the headlights and into darkness.The gravel shoulder gave way to stubbled earth—a harvested corn field, she guessed from the stalks crunching under her feet.Still, she walked, counting steps, trying to maintain her sense of direction.

Behind her, she heard the truck's door open and close.She tensed, expecting to hear a gunshot any moment.Or maybe she wouldn't hear it at all; maybe everything would just go dark as the bullet pierced her brain.

One second passed.Two.Three.

She wanted to turn around, to at least see her killer's face before it was over.She felt certain he'd been lying to her about letting her go.After all, they'd sent Tommy to kill her.Why not just eliminate her now?Get it over with?

Then, to her surprise, she heard the sound of a second door closing, followed by the starting of her truck's engine.The headlights swung around as the truck turned, and suddenly her shadow stretched to her right instead of before her.

Her body flooded with relief as the truck's engine grew fainter.Finally, she allowed herself to turn around.She watched as the taillights of her truck faded into the distance like a pair of watchful eyes.

She sank to her knees, overcome by the mixture of terror and relief.She let out a long, ragged scream, sobbing with the knowledge that she'd just touched the threshold of death's door—and lived.

As the echo of her scream faded, the wind cut through her thin blouse, chilling her—she'd left her jacket in the truck along with her weapons, phone, and badge.

Pulling herself together, she rose and oriented herself, using the stars visible between scattered clouds.The highway had to be east of her position—she could faintly hear the occasional rumble of a semi-truck.But walking toward the highway meant crossing rough terrain in the dark.There had been a farmhouse somewhere to the northwest—she remembered seeing wood smoke earlier.

The corn stubble crunched under her boots as she turned slowly, scanning the horizon.There—a faint glow that had to be yard lights.It would mean walking across at least two fields, probably climbing fences, but it was her best option.

She started walking, using the scattered fence posts as guides.The temperature was dropping fast—typical for an October night in Utah.Her feet kept catching on dead stalks and furrows hidden in the darkness.An owl swooped silently overhead, hunting in the empty fields.

The first fence was barbed wire, probably for cattle.She found a post sturdy enough to support her weight and carefully climbed over, thankful for the years of physical training that kept her strength up.The second field was smoother—alfalfa maybe, or winter wheat.

The yard lights seemed to hover in the distance, not appearing to get any closer despite her steady progress.Out here in farm country, distances could be deceptive.What looked like a short walk could turn into miles.

Something skittered away through the darkness—a rabbit or maybe a coyote.Sheila kept walking.The wind had picked up, carrying the sharp scent of approaching winter.Her hands were growing numb, and she tucked them under her arms as she walked.

After what felt like an hour but was probably twenty minutes, she reached another fence.Beyond it, she could make out the silhouette of farm equipment—tractors and other machinery stored in a neat row.The yard lights illuminated a well-maintained ranch house and a large barn.

Emotionally and physically exhausted, she climbed the fence, not wanting to spook any dogs that might be around.Sure enough, a deep bark echoed from near the barn, followed by the sound of chain rattling against metal.

"Hello?"she called out, staying where she was."I need help!"

A porch light flicked on.The door opened, spilling more light into the yard.A man's voice called out: "Who's there?"

"Sheriff Sheila Stone," she replied, barely managing to hold herself together."My vehicle was stolen.I need to use your phone."

Silence for a moment.Then: "Stay where you are.I'm coming out."

The man who emerged carried a shotgun—not threatening, just careful.Out here, people learned to be cautious of strangers in the night.He was older, probably in his seventies, wearing work clothes despite the late hour.

"Sheriff Stone?"he asked, lowering the shotgun slightly."Gabe's daughter?"

"Yes, sir."The recognition was a relief—her father's reputation in the county often opened doors."I'm sorry to disturb you so late."

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