Page 22 of Silent Home

If they could just find them in time.

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Jessica's locker in the employee break room was a standard metal box, identical to dozens of others.The combination from Carl Rider's employee records worked on the first try.Inside, they found the expected things: a spare uniform shirt, hairbrush, breath mints, a well-worn copy of "The Glass Menagerie" filled with post-it notes and highlighting.

"Look at this," Finn said, carefully removing a small notebook.The pages were filled with Jessica's neat handwriting—names, dates, times.Most entries were mundane: work schedules, audition notes, phone numbers.But the last few pages were different.

"She was tracking something," Sheila said, studying the cryptic notations."Meeting times, locations..."She pointed to one entry:MV Hotel—3rd floor—8:45 PM—saw it again."But saw what?"

They found other oddities: a receipt for a high-end video camera she shouldn't have been able to afford, a business card for a private investigator in Salt Lake City, a torn piece of paper with what looked like a computer password.

But nothing that explained what she'd discovered.Nothing worth killing over.

"Looks like a dead end," Finn said, carefully returning the notebook to the locker.

Sheila shook her head, frustrated."There's something here.The private investigator, the camera receipt, these notes...she was building toward something."

"But what got her killed?And where's that yellow envelope the cab driver mentioned?"

"Probably wherever the killer stashed her phone."Sheila closed the locker, letting the metal door click shut."We need to think this through.Jessica comes here three nights ago, after trying to get money from Greenwald.She's carrying evidence of something, but she's scared."

"Scared enough to want to run."

"Right.But instead of running, she comes here."Sheila looked around the mundane break room with its coffee maker and outdated notices."Why here?What was so important?"

"Maybe we should walk the building," Finn suggested."See it how she would have seen it that night.Something made her choose the theater instead of going home."

Sheila nodded."And we should check the festival crowd, see who's still around from 'The Winter Palace' production.Someone here knows what Jessica found."

They headed for the exit.

Outside, the festival had transformed as night fell.String lights crisscrossed Main Street, casting warm pools of light between deep shadows.The crowds were different too—more industry people now, fewer tourists.Filmmakers huddled in intimate groups, pitching projects in urgent whispers.Crowds spilled from the theaters, arguing passionately about the latest screenings.

"I don't hear any talk of a shutdown," Sheila said as they walked, their footsteps clipped on the brick sidewalk."I'm starting to think Rider was just leading us on, buying as much time as he could."The thought filled her with anger.If someone else died because the festival hadn't been shut down, Sheila would carry the guilt with her, regardless of what Rider had promised them.

"Or that event he mentioned hasn't happened yet," Finn said."Either way, we should use this opportunity to look for the killer."

Sheila glanced sharply at him."You don't think the festival should be shut down?"

"No, I think you made the right decision.But clearly it's still running, which means there's a good chance the killer's here.Someone who knows the theater, knows the film industry."

Sheila watched a group of young actors pass by, their laughter carrying on the cold air."Someone who could be any of these people," she said, following Finn's train of logic.

A street musician played something melancholy on a saxophone, the notes floating up to mix with fog gathering under the string lights.The Mountain View Hotel loomed ahead, its windows warm against the darkness.Somewhere in that building, Bradley Greenwald was preparing for his premiere.

But Sheila's eyes were drawn to the shadows between buildings, the quiet corners where festival crowds didn't venture.Perfect places to watch without being seen.

"Jessica found something," she said quietly."Something specific to this festival, this place.The staging of her death wasn't just artistic—it was personal."

"You think she interrupted something?Saw something she wasn't supposed to?"

"Maybe."Sheila stopped walking, watching another crowd exit a theater.Everyone looked normal, excited about films they'd just seen.But any one of them could be their killer."Or maybe she went looking for something specific.That private investigator's card, the video camera receipt..."

"She was gathering evidence," Finn finished."Building a case."

"But against who?"

The saxophone player switched to something darker and more discordant.The fog was thickening, turning the string lights into halos.Perfect atmospheric lighting, Sheila thought.Like something from a film noir.

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