Page 7 of Once Silenced

“Riley, I know that look.”Bill said softly.“And you know as well as I do that ‘just a few calls’ wouldn’t be enough.”His tone was gentle, but the words carried the weight of experience.“You’re too good at what you do, too invested.It’s one of the things I love about you, but it’s also why you need to be careful about getting yourself involved.”

“Yes, but … Mrs.Whitfield was so special,” she murmured, wincing slightly as a sliver of glass pricked her finger.A small bead of blood welled up, bright against her skin.“She was more than just my algebra teacher.She was one of the first teachers who really saw me, you know?She encouraged my curiosity, pushed me to think critically.In a way, she helped set me on the path to the FBI.”

“But this isn’t our jurisdiction,” Bill added gently.“It’s a local case, and you’re not even an active field agent anymore.”

She turned to him, her hazel eyes clouded with conflict.“I know, I know.It’s just...it feels wrong to not do anything.She meant a lot to me, Bill.Mrs.Whitfield used to say that every story has its exceptions .That we shouldn’t be afraid to look into them, because that’s where the truth hides.”She glanced out into the darkened backyard, where a high wooden fence hid the alleyway and other homes beyond.

“Let’s get inside,” he suggested.“Everybody else seems to have returned to their rooms.We should do that too.”

They walked back through the house where few remnants of the party remained.Gabriela had cleaned up the table and returned the leftovers to the kitchen, then had gone to her downstairs quarters for the night.April had apparently taken her new treasures upstairs to her own room.

When she and Bill went upstairs, Riley saw that both girls had closed themselves up in their rooms, though light under their doorways indicated that they were following up their own interests.She thought that April was likely studying the courses available to her, and Jilly was probably watching her little TV.

She and Bill went to their large bedroom, which like the rest of the house was simple and practical.One corner served as Riley’s home office, where she could work if she needed to.They also shared a private bathroom and a large closet.

Together, they slipped beneath the covers, the warmth a striking disparity to the cold, dark world outside.But even as Riley got into bed, the death of her former teacher was still on her mind.As Bill turned off the bedside lamp, darkness enveloped the room, but not the storm of her thoughts.

“You’re right.I know you’re right,” she muttered to him.“But Bill, if it really is murder...don’t the local police deserve all the help they can get?Don’t we owe it to Mrs.Whitfield to make sure her case is solved properly?”

Bill moved closer, the bed dipping under his weight as he wrapped an arm around her.His embrace was a fortress, a bulwark against her doubts.

“I understand how you feel.But we have to trust the local authorities to do their job.They’re professionals too, remember?And for all we know, the killer might already be in custody.It might be open and shut.”

Riley leaned into him, absorbing the strength of his steady presence.His words were logical, yet her heart rebelled against the simplicity of his reasoning.The rhythm of the rain against the windows became a backdrop to her whirling mind.She knew Bill was right; she should remain a spectator to this unfolding tragedy, not an actor.But old habits clung to her.

“Try to get some sleep,” Bill murmured, his voice an anchor in the turmoil.

“Sleep,” she echoed, her tone distant.The idea seemed as unreachable as the answers to the questions haunting her.She closed her eyes, willing her mind to still, but the images of her high school days, of chalkboards and dog-eared books, swirled into focus.

The room blurred as Riley’s eyes grew heavy, the soft patter of rain lulling her into the nebulous space between wakefulness and dreams.There, in the comforting darkness behind her closed eyelids, she saw her former teacher’s face—Margaret Whitfield, with those kind, knowing eyes that had once looked upon her with such faith and encouragement.

As sleep finally began to claim her, Riley couldn’t help but feel that somehow, someway, the truth would find her, pulling her back into the depths of a world she thought she’d left behind.In her dream, the silence was absolute, save for the ghostly whisper of justice.Mrs.Whitfield’s gaze held her, a silent plea that transcended words.It was a call to action she couldn’t ignore.

Riley knew that this case, Margaret Whitfield’s case, was going to find its way to her.

One way or another.

*

The next morning, Riley’s strides echoed through the empty corridor of the FBI Academy, from the classroom where she taught to her nearby office.Her morning lecture had been a blur.It was always a good class, with no students like Leo Dillard to annoy or worry her.But images of Mrs.Whitfield’s kind face had kept forcing themselves between slides on criminal psychology.What was it about the algebra teacher’s death that refused to settle in the recesses of her mind?It wasn’t just another case file; this was personal.

She reached her office, a sanctuary of sorts, in the bustling chaos of the Academy.The walls were lined with the shelves holding countless books and reports.She even had a window here, where sunlight filtered through the blinds.Her desk, sturdy and well-worn from years of use, sat in the center of the room.Her own chair behind the desk was also old but comfortable.In front of the desk were several chairs for Academy students who might feel the need to conference with her.

Those students were a special satisfaction to her in this job, handpicked for their exceptional law-keeping abilities demonstrated in previous positions.And strong, because in addition to their courses at the Academy, they spent considerable time training on the firing range and challenging obstacle courses.

She’d found it satisfying to help get them started on their careers, seeing their progress and growth towards becoming agents.She knew she was helping shape the future of this prestigious organization, one recruit at a time.Although few of them would become full-scale profilers, the perspectives she brought them from the BAU division would deepen their abilities.Even a touch of those skills would help them, no matter which FBI career lay ahead of them.

Riley sank into her chair and turned to face her computer.She reached out to her keyboard, but couldn’t bring herself to type a single word.

“Focus, Riley,” she murmured to herself, glancing at the clock.Her second class would start soon, yet her mind remained tethered to a memory she wished she could unravel.A locked door without a key.Mrs.Whitfield had been more than a teacher; she was a beacon for a young girl adrift in a sea of uncertainty after losing her mother.And now, someone had extinguished that light under mysterious circumstances.

As if propelled by an unseen force, Riley opened her desk drawer, where she had put her phone.Bill’s words from the night before surfaced—warnings laced with protective concern—but they dissipated like mist against the heat of her resolve.Hoke Smith, the chief of police in Slippery Rock, might have the answers she sought.Or at least, a starting point.

Her finger hovered over the call button, the weight of her decision pressing down.Would Hoke Smith understand her need to dig deeper, or would he see it as an intrusion?Back in algebra class, Hoke had sat two desks over, his boyish scrawl a stark contrast to Mrs.Whitfield’s meticulous script.They had shared knowing glances when concepts clicked, a silent camaraderie in the face of quadratic challenges.

She pressed the button, and as she’d expected, her call reached a receptionist, but when she identified herself as an FBI agent, it was put through to the police station chief.But all she was getting at first was a series of rings.

“Come on, Hoke,” she whispered, almost willing him to pick up, to be the ally she needed.As the rings stretched on, each one tightened the knot in her stomach.Finally, a click signaled connection, and Riley steadied her voice, prepared to navigate the edges of professional courtesy and personal urgency.

---