Page 29 of Silent Trail

Natalie glanced up, concern etched on her face. "You okay?"

"Fine. Just need some fresh air." She forced a smile, trying to reassure her sister.

Rising, Sheila strode out of the room, entered a hallway, and followed it all the way to the exit. As she stepped outside into the crisp night air, leaving the oppressive ambiance of the cafeteria behind, the Clearview University campus spread before her like an oasis of knowledge, its well-manicured lawns and modern architecture bathed in the soft glow of streetlights. Shadows danced across the empty pathways as leaves rustled in the gentle breeze, the silence of the night occasionally broken by distant laughter or footsteps echoing through the darkness.

Despite the tranquil exterior, a palpable tension hung over the campus. Police cars prowled along the perimeter, their presence a somber reminder of the danger lurking within. It was as if the entire university held its breath, waiting for the next strike.

As she walked, Sheila's thoughts drifted to Natalie. Her sister had always been the stronger one, the golden child, but now she found herself confined to a wheelchair and facing an uncertain future. Sheila wondered how much of Natalie's stubborn determination was a mask, hiding her own fear and vulnerability.

Pausing in the shadows, she leaned against a brick wall and pulled out her phone. She hesitated for a moment before calling her father. As it rang, she glanced around at the darkened campus, feeling a shiver run down her spine that had nothing to do with the cold.

"Hey, Sheila," he said with a tired sigh. "How's my little girl?"

"Not so little any more. I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

"Ah, Sheila," Gabe replied warmly. "No, you're not interrupting. I was just painting, but my eyes were getting blurry and I was about to wrap up for the night anyway."

"Painting?" Sheila couldn't help but smile at the thought of her father – who had been both a hardnosed kickboxer and no-nonsense law enforcement officer in his time – wielding a paintbrush instead of a pistol or boxing gloves. It seemed so unlike him, and yet, she was glad he had found a creative outlet in his twilight years.

"Really? What are you painting?" she asked, genuinely curious.

"Actually, it's a landscape of Coldwater," Gabe said, his voice taking on a wistful tone. "You know, the view from our backyard, overlooking the Great Salt Lake. I thought it would be a nice reminder of home for you girls."

Sheila felt a warmth spreading through her chest as she pictured her dad carefully capturing the rugged beauty of their hometown. It was endearing, this softer side of him, and she cherished these rare glimpses into his heart.

"Wow, Dad, that sounds amazing," she murmured. "I can't wait to see it."

"Me neither." Gabe chuckled. "I'm not much of an artist, but it's been a good way to relax, you know?"

"Definitely," Sheila said, her gaze drifting across the eerily quiet campus once more. She wished she could share her father's sense of peace, but the weight of the unsolved case pressed down on her like a leaden blanket.

The silence lingered for a moment, heavy with unspoken thoughts. Sheila could almost hear the brushstrokes of her father's painting. Finally, Gabe cleared his throat.

"How's Natalie doing?" he asked. "You seen her much lately?"

Sheila sighed, her gaze falling onto the dark pavement beneath her feet. "A bit. I don't really know how she's doing, Dad. She keeps things close to her chest, doesn't open up much—at least not to me."

"Ah, yes," Gabe murmured, understanding in his tone. "She's always been like that. It's hard for her to show vulnerability."

"Especially now," Sheila added, thinking about her sister's injury and the wheelchair that had become such an unwelcome part of her life. "She seems to be coping, but I can tell it's difficult for her."

Gabe's voice grew somber. "It's a tough adjustment, no doubt about it. But your sister's strong. She'll find her way through this."

"I just wish there was more I could do to help," Sheila said, frustration bubbling up inside her.

"So do I, Sheila. So do I." His voice had grown thoughtful, almost sad. Then he took a quick breath, signaling a change in topic. "So, how are you liking police work?"

"Mostly it's been good," she replied, hesitating for a moment before adding, "but seeing my first body…that was tough."

"Ah, I remember my first one," Gabe said, his voice both somber and nostalgic. "It was a hit-and-run, out on the highway. The poor guy was barely recognizable. I was just a rookie, and it shook me to my core."

Sheila could almost picture her father standing there, a young officer facing the harsh realities of his chosen profession. What must her father have been like at that age?

"Your mother was so worried about me," Gabe continued, his voice thick with emotion. "But eventually, you learn to cope. You find a way to compartmentalize, to put up a barrier between your work and your personal life."

"Is that what you did?" Sheila asked, genuinely curious.

"Most of the time," he admitted. "But some cases still haunt me. The ones that never got solved, or where justice wasn't served…those are the ones that keep me up at night."

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