Page 60 of Silent Past

"Start with the thumbnails," the Irishman said casually. "More nerve endings."

"Please," Sheila said, her voice raw. "I swear we haven't told anyone else. Just Finn, and only because I trust him with my life."

The pliers hovered over Finn's nail. Sweat beaded on his forehead, but he remained silent, stoic.

"Dad was careful," she continued. "We both were. We knew what happened to people who talked about this."

The Irishman studied her for a long moment, his eyes cold behind the mask. Finally, he nodded, and the man with the pliers stepped back.

"I believe you," he said quietly. "Your father's not stupid. He learned that lesson with your mother." He stood, adjusting his grip on the rifle. "Finish it," he told one of his men. "Make it clean."

Ice flooded Sheila's veins. This was it—they were going to die here, in this dusty room that already held too much violence.

"Wait," she called as he turned to leave. "Why? Why did Mom have to die?"

He paused in the doorway, considering. "Your mother was an accountant. Good with numbers. She started tracking discrepancies in the department's finances—money from drug seizures, federal grants, asset forfeitures. Millions disappearing over decades." He turned back slightly. "But it wasn't just the money. It was where it went."

"Meridian Holdings," Sheila said softly.

"A shell company. But look deeper and you find something bigger—judges taking bribes to dismiss cases, politicians ensuring certain investigations go nowhere, evidence disappearing from lockup. A whole system, carefully built over thirty years." His accent made the words sound almost poetic. "Your mother followed the money. Found names that should've stayed buried."

"So you sent Eddie Mills to kill her."

"Had to be someone outside the department. No connections. Just a man who needed money and had a grudge against cops." He shrugged. "Simple, clean. Until you started digging."

"You're the one who ordered it." The words felt like ash in her mouth. "You gave Mills the order to kill my mother."

"Nothing personal, Sheriff. Just business." He started to turn away again. "Your mother couldn't let it go. Just like you."

"And now what? You kill us too?"

"Like I said—nothing personal. But systems only work when the right people stay quiet." He nodded to his men. "Goodbye, Sheriff Stone."

"Wait." Sheila's voice cracked. "My father. Where is he?"

The Irishman paused in the doorway. "You'll see him soon enough." The words carried finality, a death sentence wrapped in soft accent.

"No." The word came out as barely a whisper. "You didn't..."

But he was already gone, boots echoing down the hall, leaving his men to finish their work. Sheila found Finn's hand, feeling the warmth of his skin against hers. His fingers squeezed once—a final gesture of comfort, of solidarity.

She thought of Star, who would now lose another guardian. Of her mother, waiting in that cold ground. Of her father, who had died trying to protect her from the very secrets that would now kill her too.

The rifles' mechanisms clicked as rounds were chambered.

Then came the sound of breaking glass from somewhere below, sharp and sudden in the dusty silence. Sheila's breath caught. Every muscle in her body tensed, straining to hear more.

For a long moment, no one moved. Even the armed men seemed frozen, heads cocked slightly as they listened.

Another sound drifted up from below—something heavy shifting against floorboards. It could have been the old house settling, but Sheila knew better. Someone else was down there. But friend or foe? Either way, the tension in the room had shifted. Their executioners' attention was split now, their confidence shaken by this unknown factor.

One of the masked men glanced at his partner. "Check it," he ordered, keeping his rifle trained on Sheila and Finn.

The second man disappeared down the stairs, his footsteps fading into silence. Sheila held her breath, every muscle coiled with tension. The remaining gunman shifted his weight nervously and moved his rifle between her and Finn as he tried to cover them both.

The sound of impact echoed up from below—a body hitting something solid. Then came the unmistakable sounds of hand-to-hand combat: grunts of effort, the thud of fists finding flesh, furniture splintering.

Their guard's attention wavered, his head turning slightly toward the noise. The rifle barrel dipped a fraction of an inch.

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