Page 56 of Silent Home

The planks swayed with each step.Halfway across, she heard a snap—one of the ropes giving way.The bridge tilted sharply, and she had to grab a support cable to keep her balance.

"Sheila!"Finn's voice carried from somewhere behind her.

She looked back to see him emerging onto the platform she'd just left.But she was committed now—going back would be as dangerous as going forward.She took another careful step, feeling the boards shift beneath her.

Through his camera lens, Thorne watched her progress with an artist's intensity.Did he hope she'd fall?Was this moment of suspense just another scene in his twisted production?

The next step was met with an ominous cracking sound.The remaining ropes were straining, the wood beginning to splinter.She was still eight feet from safety, too far to jump.

She heard Finn shout something behind her, but her focus narrowed to the fraying rope, the splintering wood.Time seemed to slow.If she moved quickly enough...

The bridge gave way just as she launched herself forward.For a sickening moment she was airborne, the alley yawning beneath her.Then, her hands caught the edge of the furniture store's roof.Her body slammed against the brick wall, driving the air from her lungs.

Thorne stood a few feet away, still filming.But in that moment of distraction, he failed to notice Finn had found another route—through the furniture store itself.The roof access door burst open behind Thorne.

"Drop the camera," Finn ordered, weapon drawn."Hands where I can see them."

As Sheila pulled herself onto the roof, she saw something unexpected cross Thorne's face—not fear or anger, but relief.

"Careful with the bag," he said as she cuffed him."The evidence is fragile."

"Evidence?"she asked.

"Why do you think I've been documenting everything?"His voice was quiet, almost sad."Someone had to preserve the truth."

They led him down through the furniture store, where a very confused manager was trying to understand why police had just run through his business.Outside, backup units were arriving, lights flashing in the morning sun.

"I think," Thorne said as they reached the ground, "we need to have a very long conversation about what I've been filming these past few weeks."

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

The interrogation room felt colder than usual, though maybe that was just Sheila's exhaustion catching up with her.Thorne sat across the metal table, his demeanor strangely calm for someone who'd just led them on a rooftop chase.His camera and bags had been secured as evidence, but he kept glancing at them through the observation window as if more concerned about his equipment than his own situation.

"Let's start with why you ran," Sheila said.She'd taken off her jacket, still sweaty from the chase and climb.Her shoulders ached from catching herself on the roof's edge.

"I needed to protect the footage."Thorne's voice remained soft, measured.He had an artist's hands, she noticed—long fingers that kept making small gestures as if framing shots."When the power went out, I knew they'd be coming for my equipment next.Had to get everything copied and secured."

"They?"Finn asked from his position by the door.

"Whoever's been staging these murders."Thorne reached for a water bottle, then stopped when he remembered his hands were cuffed."I've been documenting strange behavior for weeks.People accessing the theaters after hours.Equipment being moved.Costumes being photographed."

"Documenting?"Sheila leaned forward."Or planning?"

"You think I'm the killer."It wasn't a question."That I staged those scenes, created those moments."He smiled slightly."I understand why.The technical knowledge, the attention to detail, the theatrical elements.But you're misreading the narrative."

"Explain it to us then," Sheila said.

Thorne glanced at his equipment again."It's all there, in the footage.I started noticing things during 'The Winter Palace' production.People watching the auditions too intently.Making notes about specific performers.At first I thought they were just talent scouts, but..."He paused."There was something predatory about their attention."

"So you started filming them?"Finn asked.

"I film everything.It's what I do.But I started being more systematic about it.Setting up cameras in overlooked places.Documenting patterns."His hands moved again, sketching invisible frames."When Jessica Gregory died, posed exactly like that scene from 'Winter Palace,' I knew I'd been right.Someone had been studying these performances, learning them.Planning them."

"And you didn't come forward because...?"Sheila let the question hang.

"Would you have believed me?A cameraman with an obsession for filming people without their knowledge?"He shook his head."I needed proof.Concrete evidence.So I kept filming, kept documenting.Even after Thomas Rivera died, after Sarah Martinez..."He swallowed hard."I should have moved faster.Should have seen the pattern sooner."

Sheila studied him carefully.His story made a certain kind of sense—a photographer documenting suspicious behavior, gathering evidence.But something nagged at her.

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