Page 1 of Once Silenced

PROLOGUE

Margaret Whitfield sat in her modest living room with her silver hair neatly tied back.She watched the television screen, but the images and sounds seemed meaningless.From somewhere far off, thunder grumbled, a prelude to the storm brewing in the western Virginia night sky and moving closer to the small mountain town of Slippery Rock.

The clock struck midnight, its chimes resonating through the quiet house, marking the passage of another sleepless hour.Margaret let out a sigh, one that seemed to carry the weight of her sixty-eight years.Her hands, still strong despite their age, rested in her lap, unoccupied.She missed the rhythm of grading, of being immersed in her students’ thoughts, the way their ideas would leap from the page in vibrant, earnest scrawl.

She remembered faces illuminated by understanding, moments when mathematical equations gave way to epiphanies.It was more than numbers; it was teaching resilience, showing how every problem had a solution if broken down into pieces.Those were the lessons that mattered, that stayed with her students long after they left her classroom.

Margaret allowed herself a small smile as she remembered the bittersweet pride that swelled in her chest during each graduation ceremony.It was a culmination of not just a year’s work, but of a journey shared, of obstacles overcome together.

“Off you go,” she would say, more to herself than to anyone else, watching as her flock stepped into the sunlit future awaiting them.It was a cycle renewed with each departing class, an enduring rhythm of life that echoed within the halls of academia long after the last diploma was claimed.

She was long since widowed, and her children had children of their own.In the solitude of retirement, the absence of laughter and inquiring minds echoed louder than ever before.

With the late-night talk show hosts blathering in the background, Margaret pushed herself up from her armchair, her movements slower than they once were, joints voicing their mild protest.The need to fill the void left by retirement drove her to seek out the familiar – the study where she spent countless hours shaping young minds.The house felt larger around her, emptier, as she made her way through the hallway lined with photos of school events and smiling teenagers, each snapshot a testament to her years of dedication.

She reached for a fat file folder tucked away on a mahogany shelf, its edges frayed from frequent handling.She carried the folder with her into the kitchen, the soft patter of her slippers against the linoleum providing a gentle rhythm to her nocturnal routine.She prepared herself a cup of chamomile tea, the steam curling into the air, and selected a few butter cookies from the tin.They were placed on a china plate.She returned to the living room, settling back into her chair with her small snack at her side.

As she began to sift through the letters she’d received from former students over the years, her eyes traced the loops and tails of familiar handwriting.Each word brought forth a stream of recollections, a flood of happier times that seemed both distant and vivid: the first-day jitters of new students, the satisfaction of seeing an idea take root and grow within a young mind, the mixed emotions of commencement ceremonies.

It was a treasure trove of letters from students who had moved on to become engineers, writers, doctors.Those were more than words of thanks; they were lifelines to a past that continued to define her.Settling into the chair behind her desk, Margaret unfolded the first letter, her eyes scanning the familiar handwriting.

“Dear Mrs.Whitfield,” it began, “you may not remember me, but...”

Each phrase unlocked memories, vivid and warm, reminding her of the difference she had made.

Another wrote, “to solve or not to solve,” and a faint smile touched her lips at the familiar refrain that she’d turned into a classroom mantra.Her students had been her children, her pride, their successes her own.

The sudden chime of the doorbell cut through the silence.Margaret blinked, the interruption pulling her sharply back to reality.She glanced at the clock – 12:47 AM.Curiosity mingled with confusion, who would come calling at such an hour?Setting aside her tea and the treasured letters, she rose from her chair once more.

“Who is it?”she called out, even as she approached the front door.Silence answered her, punctuated by another rumble of thunder.

Margaret opened the door to emptiness.No one was within the porch light’s sphere of illumination, and beyond it, she could see only shadows.

Stepping out onto the porch, she called into the night, “Hello?”

The call went unanswered, as she strained her eyes to see past the cone of light into the darkness that surrounded her.It was then that Margaret failed to notice a shadow, darker than the surrounding night, edging closer from along the side of her house.

She turned to go back into her house, but a force collided with her from behind, sending her lurching forward.Suddenly, a cord encircled her neck, yanking back with a merciless tightness that stole her breath and her ability to cry out.

Margaret’s hands flew to her throat, her fingers scrabbling against the constricting ligature as she was dragged backward toward the shadows that had concealed her assailant.Her legs flailed in a futile attempt to find purchase, her slippers skittering off into the night, leaving her barefoot and defenseless.Panic surged through her, yet it was quickly overshadowed by a creeping numbness.

As consciousness slipped away, Margaret’s mind raced with fragmented images of the students she had nurtured, the lives she had helped shape.Her last thoughts were not of the terror that gripped her, nor of any regrets, but of a life of purpose and meaning—a life that was now at its end.

CHAPTER ONE

Riley Paige stood at the head of the FBI Academy classroom, looking over rows of intent faces.She was recounting the closing hours of a complex investigation.

“Remember, it’s the subtleties that often speak volumes,” she said, her gaze sweeping the room.“In this case, it was the placement of a single, out-of-season tulip on each victim’s nightstand.”

The students leaned forward, rapt as Riley dissected the psychological underpinnings of the crime, laying bare the inner workings of a mind bent on control and the illusion of affection.She didn’t need to say how close to home that case had hit; the shadows around her eyes hinted at the toll such encounters exacted.

As Riley concluded, the air seemed to vibrate with the collective energy of her students.Hands shot up, questions flying like arrows seeking their mark.

“What was the significance of the tulip colors?”

“How did you establish the timeline?”

“Was the perpetrator reliving a lost relationship?”

---