Page 52 of Silent Night

Nostalgia washed over her like a tidal wave, memories of countless hours spent training under her father's watchful eye flooding back. This gym had been her second home growing up, and it had shaped her into the determined fighter she was today.

"Keep your guard up, Ryan! You're leaving yourself wide open!" Gabe Stone's voice boomed across the room, snapping Sheila out of her reverie. She spotted her father standing at the edge of the ring, the gray in his hair glinting under the fluorescent lights.

Two fighters sparred in the center of the ring, their bodies glistening with sweat. One, a tall, lanky man with a tattoo sleeve snaking down his arm, danced around his stockier opponent, a shorter man with a shaved head and a fierce scowl. Both were skilled, but Sheila couldn't help but notice the taller fighter's tendency to telegraph his punches, while the stockier man seemed to rely too heavily on his strength, sacrificing technique for brute force.

"Beautiful jab, Miguel," Gabe said to the shorter man, before turning his attention to the taller one. "Ryan, I've told you a thousand times, don't swing so wide. Keep it tight and controlled."

Sheila felt a small smile tug at the corners of her lips as she watched her father coach the two fighters. He had always been a fount of knowledge when it came to fighting and had imparted much of that wisdom onto her. If it weren't for him, she might never have set foot in this world of combat and competition.

Her eyes followed the swift exchange of blows between the two fighters in the ring. The room vibrated with the energy of each impact, and she could feel it reverberating through her bones. She knew that feeling all too well—her years of training had made her intimately acquainted with the dance of fists and feet.

The taller fighter, a lanky young man with an aggressive style, lunged forward, aiming a vicious hook at his opponent's head. The shorter fighter, more compact and built like a bulldog, ducked under the swing and countered with a powerful uppercut to the taller one's midsection. The air whooshed out of him as he doubled over, momentarily incapacitated.

"Time!" Gabe barked, stepping in to separate the two combatants. As they backed away from each other, panting and sweat-soaked, Gabe's piercing eyes found Sheila standing at the edge of the gym. He crossed the worn wooden floor toward her, a serious expression on his face.

"Sheila," he said in a low voice, the corners of his mouth turned up in a proud smile. "You know, you could teach most of these guys a thing or two about fighting."

"Thanks, Dad," Sheila replied, her cheeks flushing with pride. She knew he didn't give praise lightly. She hadn't come to hear his praise, though. There was something far weightier on her mind.

"About that text," she said, her voice low and urgent. "What did you find out about the vehicle at the junkyard?"

Gabe glanced around the gym, making sure no one was paying too much attention to their conversation. Satisfied that they wouldn't be overheard, he gestured for Sheila to follow him. They made their way through the maze of workout equipment and punching bags, finally arriving at Gabe's office. The door creaked softly as he pushed it open, revealing a small, cluttered space filled with fight posters and trophies from his own boxing days.

"Can I get you something to drink?" Gabe asked, motioning toward a small fridge tucked away in the corner.

Sheila shook her head, her mind racing with anticipation. "No, Dad, let's just get to it. What did you find out about the car?"

"Alright, Sheila." Gabe sighed. "I spoke to the junkyard owner, and they were able to locate a bill of purchase for the vehicle we've been looking into."

Her heart pounded with a mix of hope and fear. This could be the break they needed to track down her mother's killer. She leaned forward in the worn leather chair.

"Who sold the car to the junkyard?" she asked.

"A fellow by the name of Rayland Bax," Gabe replied, his eyes clouded with uncertainty. "He has a bit of a checkered past—mostly petty crimes and drug offenses."

"Then we need to talk to him," Sheila insisted, her determination unwavering. "Right now."

Gabe hesitated before responding, taking a deep breath. "It's not that simple, Sheila. Rayland's currently serving time in prison for armed robbery."

"Then we go to the prison," she said, undeterred. "We can't afford to wait any longer."

"Sheila, listen to me," Gabe said, his voice firm but gentle. "Even if we get a chance to speak with him, there's no guarantee he'll tell us anything. We have nothing to offer him in return for the truth. If he were to confess to killing your mother, he'll only face a longer sentence."

Sheila clenched her fists, her knuckles turning white as she looked into her father's eyes. "One way or another, Dad, I'm going to get answers from Rayland."

Gabe studied his daughter for a moment, perhaps recognizing the fact that once Sheila set her mind on something, there was no stopping her. He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. The air in the office seemed to grow heavier with each passing second, the tension between them palpable.

"Alright, Sheila," he finally said, his voice low and serious. "I've got one more piece of information that might help. But you need to promise me you'll be careful. This isn't something to take lightly."

Sheila nodded, not breaking eye contact. "I promise."

"Rayland is being held at Blackridge Penitentiary," Gabe began, the name sending a shiver down Sheila's spine. She had heard stories about the infamous high-security prison, notorious for housing some of the most dangerous criminals in the state.

"I spoke with an old buddy of mine who works there," Gabe went on. "According to him, Rayland is connected—got loyal friends inside the prison as well as outside." He frowned, growing thoughtful. Sheila waited for several seconds before her impatience got the better of her.

"What?" she asked. "What are you not saying?"

His face twisted in an agonized expression, and he swallowed hard. "If we put the screws to Rayland, it's not just that he might not talk. He might come after us—and everyone we love."

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