Page 58 of Silent Past

Pale light filtered through broken windows at the top of the stairs, casting strange shadows across walls stained by years of neglect. The blood trail continued, turning left at the landing. Sheila paused at the top step, listening. Nothing but the hollow sound of wind through empty rooms.

There was a door on the right. Sheila quietly tried the handle, but it was locked. She considered kicking it open, but the blood trail led to the master bedroom at the end of the hall.

That was her priority.

Sheila's hands felt slick on her weapon as she and Finn approached the master bedroom. The door stood partially open, darkness beyond holding answers she wasn't sure she wanted. She met Finn's eyes. He nodded.

The door opened with painful slowness. Light from the hall spilled across bare floorboards, illuminating more chairs arranged in that same interrogation setup. Blood stained the seat of one. Brass casings caught the light, scattered near the wall like fallen coins.

The room was empty.

"That's far enough, Sheriff Stone."

The voice came from behind them.

They spun, but too late. The muzzles of three rifles pointed at them from the hallway. The men must have been hiding in the locked room, waiting for Sheila and Finn to pass.

Sheila inwardly cursed herself for not clearing that room. Her worry for her father had clouded her judgment, compromised her training. Was he already dead?

"Weapons on the floor," the voice commanded. "Slowly."

Sheila's mind raced, calculating angles, possibilities.

"Now, Sheriff. Unless you want to make this harder than it needs to be."

She set her weapon down, watching Finn do the same from the corner of her eye. Three men in dark clothing advanced into the room, their faces hidden by ski masks.

"Where's my father?" Sheila demanded, trying to keep her voice steady.

"He's alive." The speaker seemed to be in charge. "For now. Which is more than I can say for you two if you don't cooperate."

"You really think you can kill a sheriff and her deputy without consequences?"

"Wouldn't be the first time someone died investigating things they shouldn't." The rifle gestured toward the master bedroom. "Move."

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

The master bedroom's floorboards creaked beneath their feet as they were forced inside. Late morning light filtered through windows hazed by decades of grime, catching dust motes that danced like falling ash. The leader moved into the room behind them, rifle steady.

"Turn around," he commanded. "Slowly."

The accent hit Sheila like a physical blow—that same lilting Irish inflection she'd heard in her truck just days ago, when a stranger had slipped into her backseat and threatened everyone she loved.

Her hands clenched involuntarily as she turned. The ski mask couldn't hide the coldness in his eyes, the professional detachment of someone accustomed to violence. This was the man who'd threatened Star, who'd promised to kill her father if Sheila didn't back off.

And now he had Gabriel. Was Star safe? Surely Bo Pratz wouldn't let anyone near her. Then again, he was only one man.

"You," she said, voice tight with fury. "The one from my truck."

"Ah, you remember." His tone carried a hint of amusement beneath that deadly calm. "I did warn you, Sheriff. Told you what would happen if you kept pushing." The rifle barrel never wavered. "But you just couldn't let it go, could you?"

"Where's my father?"

"Worried about him now? Should've thought of that before you started digging into things that don't concern you."

"Like Cartlon Vance? Who is he?"

The man gestured to one of his men. "Check them for backup weapons. Phones too."

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