Page 62 of Silent Home

"Because it's not here."Sheila moved to the window, looking down at Main Street where workers were taking down festival banners."He talked about a 'secure location' where he keeps his most important work.Somewhere even his studio cameras don't monitor."

"Another editing bay?"

"Maybe.Or maybe something else entirely."She turned back to the room full of evidence."Whatever it is, it contains his original recordings.The ones he considered his true art."

A knock at the door interrupted them.Deputy Neville entered, looking troubled."You need to see this," she said, handing Sheila a tablet."Someone uploaded portions of Morrison's surveillance footage to multiple film industry websites.It's going viral."

The video showed a series of damning conversations—producers discussing payoffs, directors admitting to pre-arranged casting, investors laughing about keeping "outsiders" away from desirable roles.Comments were flooding in from actors describing similar experiences, creating a tsunami of revelations that threatened to reshape independent film.

"Morrison's final performance," Sheila said quietly."Even arrested, he found a way to expose everything.I guess he decided that if he couldn't go on creating art the way he wanted to, he might as well take down some of the people he despised and hated."

"The festival board is calling an emergency meeting," Neville said."They're talking about permanent shutdown, complete restructuring."

Sheila nodded, but her mind was already moving to the implications.If Morrison had planned this level of exposure, what else had he arranged?What other revelations waited in his mysterious "Collection"?

Sheila moved to the window, looking down at Main Street, where festival crowds had thronged just days ago."He didn't even see them as murders.In his mind, he was giving these actors their perfect moments, their ideal performances.The scenes they'd been denied by festival politics."

Finn moved to stand beside her at the window."I talked to Paul Wilson this morning.He had no idea Morrison was accessing his surveillance system.Thought the glitches in his cameras were technical issues."

"Morrison's work with documentaries gave him the skills to hack Wilson's setup," Sheila said."He used that access to study his victims, learn their routines.Then he'd stage each murder to recreate the scenes they'd originally auditioned for."

The October sunlight felt weak, doing little to warm the empty studio.Down on Main Street, workers were taking down the last of the festival banners.It would be a long time before Coldwater hosted another film festival—if ever.

A familiar truck pulled into a parking space below—her father's old Ford.Gabriel Stone climbed out, moving stiffly in the morning cold.

"Did you call him?"she asked Finn.

He shook his head."But after what happened with your truck..."He left the sentence hanging.

The memory of the Irish-accented man in her backseat sent a chill through her that had nothing to do with the temperature.Her truck had been found burned, Tommy's laptop destroyed.Someone had known exactly what they were looking for.

She had downplayed the incident to her father, avoiding any reference to her investigation into departmental corruption, but she had little doubt her father had connected the two.

"I should talk to him," she said."After everything that's happened..."

"You think it's safe?"

She thought about the man's warning, about his threats against her father and Star."I don't know.But keeping him in the dark might be more dangerous."

They left Morrison's studio, locking it behind them.The Mountain View Hotel felt different now, knowing what had happened in its rooms and corridors.Knowing how Morrison had used its spaces to stage his performances.

They found Gabriel in the lobby, pretending to read a newspaper.He folded it away as they approached.

"Thought I'd find you here," he said.His voice was casual, but his eyes were sharp."Heard you caught the festival killer."

"James Morrison," she said."Cinematographer with a twisted artistic vision."

Gabriel nodded slowly."And your truck?Any leads on who torched it?"

The question hung in the air between them.Through the lobby windows, Sheila could see the spot where her truck had been parked that night.Where someone had been waiting for her, someone who knew about departmental corruption, about Tommy, about her mother's murder.

"That's...complicated," she said carefully.

"Usually is."Gabriel set his newspaper aside."Maybe we should talk somewhere private."

Sheila glanced around the lobby.How many cameras were hidden in smoke detectors and light fixtures?How many people might be listening?

"Not here," she said quietly."And not at the station."

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