Page 57 of Silent Past

"Sheila." He touched her arm gently. "We will find him. But getting yourself killed won't help anyone."

She looked back at the farmhouse, its broken windows staring like empty eyes across the overgrown fields. Somewhere in there—or somewhere else entirely—her father was being held by people who had already proven they would kill to keep their corruption hidden.

"I can't wait for backup," she said finally. "Can't risk them moving him, or worse." She turned to Finn, her face set with the same determination he'd seen before her biggest fights. "But I'm not asking you to come with me."

"Like hell you're not." His voice carried equal parts exasperation and loyalty. "You really think I'd let you do this alone?"

"Finn..."

"No. Do you want to go in there? Fine. But we do it together, and we do it smart." He pulled out his phone. "At least let me tell Sarah where we are. If things go wrong..."

Sheila nodded slowly. "Okay. But give us an hour before she moves in. If Dad's in there, we need time to get him out."

They studied the farmhouse in silence for several moments. Somewhere inside that hollow shell of a building, answers waited. The question was: would they survive learning them?

"Ready?" Finn asked softly.

Sheila checked her weapon one last time, thinking of her father, of all the times he'd been there for her. Now it was her turn.

"Ready."

The stillness pressed against them like a physical thing as they moved through tall grass toward the farmhouse. Their approach kept them in the shadow of an old equipment shed. The grass whispered beneath their careful steps, crickets falling silent as they passed.

Reaching the side of the house, they pressed against weathered boards still cool from night air. The side door stood fifteen feet away, its frame warped with age and weather. Sheila caught Finn's eye and gestured—she'd go high, he'd go low.

Paint flakes crumbled beneath her fingers as they edged along the wall. Every sense strained for signs of movement, for any indication they weren't alone. A crow called somewhere distant, the sound emphasizing the unnatural quiet around the farmhouse.

The door's hinges looked rusty, likely to squeal. Sheila tested the handle with infinite patience, feeling the mechanism's resistance. It turned. Unlocked.

She met Finn's eyes again. Too easy? Or exactly what they'd expected to find?

The door opened with only the faintest whisper of wood against wood. Stale air washed over them, carrying the scent of abandonment. They moved inside like smoke, clearing the small mud room.

The kitchen beyond bore signs of recent use—fresh boot prints in decades of dust, a cabinet door left slightly ajar. Light filtered through filthy windows, painting patterns across a scarred linoleum floor. Every surface held a thick layer of grime except for one chair, pulled away from the table. Recently used.

Finn gestured toward the front room. More boot prints led that way, along with something else—a darker trail, like something wet had been dragged across the floor.

Sheila's throat tightened as she recognized what it probably was. Blood.

They moved forward, sweeping each corner, each shadow. The front room opened before them, revealing an old sofa sitting against one wall, its fabric rotted by time and weather. More chairs had been arranged facing it, their positions suggesting an interrogation setup.

Dark stains marked the floor near the chairs. Fresh stains.

A floorboard creaked overhead.

They both froze, weapons trained toward the ceiling. Another creak—deliberate this time. Someone moving above them.

Sheila's eyes found the staircase leading to the upper floor. More blood drops marked the steps.

She took a step toward the stairs, but Finn's hand caught her arm. His eyes carried a clear message: This is exactly what they want.

She nodded slightly. I know.

They moved toward the staircase together, every board beneath their feet a potential betrayal. The blood drops led upward into shadow.

Sheila took the first step, testing her weight against aged wood. No sound. She moved higher, Finn close behind, both of them pressed against the wall where the boards would be most stable.

Another creak from above, closer now.

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