Page 32 of Silent Road

"What is it?"Tommy asked.

Sheila dialed Mrs.Jacobs.No answer.

She tried again.Come on,she thought.Come on—

"Hello?"Mrs.Jacobs answered, sounding groggy.

"Margaret, it's Sheila.Did Star come home last night?"

A pause that seemed to stretch forever."No, dear.I watched until midnight, but there was no sign of her.I assumed she was staying with friends..."

Sheila's stomach clenched."You haven't seen her at all?"

"No.Sheila, is everything alright?"

"I have to go."She ended the call, then called Star.No answer.

As Sheila's unease and guilt mounted, she hurried toward the door.

"What's wrong?"Tommy straightened, instantly alert.

"I just need to check on someone, make sure they're alright."She grabbed her coat from the back of a chair.

He started to rise."Let me come with you—"

"No."She turned back to him."If Morton is our killer, we need to keep a close eye on him.I need you here."

Tommy looked torn between following orders and following her."At least let me call for backup to meet you—"

"This is personal business," she said."I don't need backup."And with that, she hurried out—desperately hoping Star was just having a sleepover without telling her about it.

But given Sheila's line of work, it was difficult not to imagine the worst.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The stench hit him first: decomposing flesh mingled with the earthy scent of snow, creating a nauseating cocktail that would have made most humans recoil.

But he wasn't like most humans.He breathed it in deeply, letting it guide him.

The mountain lion's kill was fresh.He'd been tracking the cat since dawn, waiting for the perfect moment.Steam rose from the elk carcass, stark against the crisp morning air.His camera was ready, perfectly positioned.Now, all he needed was for the cat to return.

He'd been up all night, not catching so much as a wink of sleep, but that was the cost of perfection.You had to give every ounce of your energy, every ounce ofyourself, and often even that wasn't enough.Sometimes nothing was enough.

The sun climbed higher, but he remained motionless, waiting.His fingers had gone numb inside his gloves, and his toes burned with the beginning stages of frostbite.He welcomed the pain.Pain meant you were earning the shot, proving yourself worthy of capturing truth.

Pain meant you were paying the price.

A raven landed nearby, eyeing the carcass.He ignored it.Ravens weren't what he was after.He needed the mountain lion, needed to capture that perfect moment when predator claimed its kill.Nature's truth, raw and unfiltered.

The cold deepened as clouds moved in, but he barely noticed.His father had taught him well—how to transcend physical discomfort, how to become one with the lens."The camera isn't a tool," his father would say."It's a gateway to truth.And truth requires sacrifice."

What would his father think of him now?Would he be proud, knowing what his son had accomplished, or would he find some fault in his work, some tiny mistake?It wasn't much of a question.

After all, whenhadn'this father found a mistake?

Movement caught his eye—but it wasn't the mountain lion.A figure in bright ski gear carved down a nearby slope, phone extended on a selfie stick.The skier executed a series of practiced jumps, each one carefully designed to look spontaneous.

Mark Davidson.The "influencer" had been all over the resort lately, filming his trick shots, manufacturing moments for his followers.Everything about him was performance, artifice.

---