Page 20 of Silent Home

"The cab company," Finn said."Do you remember which one?"

"Peak Valley Taxi.I have the receipt in my hotel room."

"We'll need that," Sheila said, standing."And Mr.Greenwald?Don't leave town."

He managed a weak smile."I have a premiere tonight.And after that...well, let's just say I don't think the festival will be inviting me back."

Outside the green room, Finn pulled out his phone to call the taxi company.But Sheila's mind was already racing ahead.If Jessica had found evidence of something bigger than Greenwald's indiscretions, something that truly frightened her...

What exactly had she discovered?And who might have killed her to keep it hidden?

CHAPTER EIGHT

The October evening had turned cold by seven-thirty PM, but the man barely noticed as he watched Thomas Rivera collecting room service trays from the hallway of the Mountain View Hotel's third floor.In the overhead lighting, Rivera's profile caught the shadows perfectly—high cheekbones, haunted eyes, the slight tremor in his hands that spoke of desperation rather than weakness.

He would have been perfect for the role.

The man had first noticed Rivera six months ago, during auditions for "Ghost Light" at the Coldwater Community Theater.Rivera had brought something raw to the part of Michael—a convicted murderer seeking redemption.But the director had gone with someone safer, someone more "reliable."

Now Rivera worked nights at the hotel, serving coffee to self-important filmmakers who wouldn't give him a second glance.His black uniform was slightly too large, like a toddler's clothes bought in anticipation of a growth spurt.

The man watched Rivera pause outside Room 317, balance the tray against his hip, and check a small notebook.Probably keeping track of which rooms still had dishes to collect.Such attention to detail, even in this menial role.Method acting at its finest, though Rivera didn't know he was performing.

From his position near the ice machine, the man could observe without being obvious.Festival guests passed by, too absorbed in their phones or conversations about aspect ratios to notice either of them.A perfect audience, unaware they were watching the prelude to something extraordinary.

Rivera moved to the next door, knocking softly."Room service.Collecting trays."

His voice carried the remnants of classical training—proper diction, precise consonants.The man remembered Rivera's audition monologue, how he'd made the words feel modern, immediate.Such talent, wasted on gathering other people's leftovers.

But that would change soon.

The cleaning cart provided excellent cover as the man followed Rivera down the hall.He'd spent weeks studying the hotel's routines, its rhythms.He knew that Rivera always worked alone on this floor between seven and nine PM, while the festival crowd was out at screenings or networking events.Knew that the security cameras had blind spots near the service elevator.Knew that Rivera's car—a battered Honda Civic—was parked in the darkest corner of the employee lot.

All the elements of a perfect scene, waiting to be directed.

Rivera's notebook fell as he reached for another tray.The man watched him bend to retrieve it, noticed how his uniform rode up to reveal a tattoo on his lower back—theatrical masks, comedy and tragedy intertwined.Even his skin told stories.

Eight o'clock now.The hallway had emptied as guests headed to evening screenings.Rivera's shift would end at eleven, but his real performance hadn't even begun.

The man touched the gaffer's wire in his pocket, appreciating its smooth strength.The same wire he'd used on Jessica, though she'd ultimately proved disappointing in her final scene.

But Thomas—Thomas would be magnificent.

The role had been written for someone exactly like him: a man who'd lost everything, who'd descended into darkness but maintained that spark of humanity.The man had seen it in Rivera's eyes during his audition, that perfect balance of despair and hope.He'd been robbed of the part then, but now...

Now, he would finally play it exactly as written.

The man smiled, already composing the scene in his mind.The staging would be different this time—something more intimate, more intense.Jessica's death had been a statement piece meant to send a message.But Thomas's performance would be pure art.

All he had to do was wait for the perfect moment.

After all, timing was everything.

CHAPTER NINE

Sheila held her phone up for Carl Washburn, waiting patiently as he studied the photo.

The taxi stand outside Peak Valley Transit's main office was nearly empty at eight PM.Most of the company's cabs were downtown, ferrying festival-goers between venues.But Carl Washburn's yellow Crown Victoria sat idle, its engine ticking as Washburn leaned against the driver door.

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