CHAPTER THIRTY
Sheila stood outside the hospital room door, frozen.
This was the moment she'd been waiting for, dreaming of, dreading for ten long years. The man whom she believed had murdered her mother was just on the other side of this door. Her fingers brushed against her mother's locket, the familiar heart shape worn smooth by years of this same anxious gesture.
She took a deep breath, steadying herself. She'd spent years imagining this confrontation, rehearsing questions in her mind. Now that the moment was here, she felt a strange mix of anticipation and fear. What if Mills refused to talk? What if he died before revealing the truth? What if the truth was worse than not knowing?
Her mind flashed back to that fateful night ten years ago. She'd been away at college, carefree and oblivious to the tragedy unfolding back home. The phone call from her father, his voice breaking as he delivered the news that would shatter their lives forever. The frantic drive home, the world blurring past her car window as tears streamed down her face. And then the scene that still haunted her nightmares—her childhood home transformed into a crime scene, evidence markers dotting the floor where her mother had fallen.
In the days and weeks that followed, Sheila had thrown herself into the investigation, determined to find answers. But every lead had gone cold, every clue had led to a dead end. Her father had withdrawn into himself, spending more and more time at his gym.
Just like he'd withdrawn lately.
With a brief glance at the officer on guard duty, she pushed the door open and stepped inside the hospital room.
Eddie Mills lay in the bed, looking small and frail. His face was gaunt, with dark circles under his eyes and a pallor to his skin that spoke of his recent brush with death. A bandage was wrapped around his head, covering the skull fracture he'd sustained during his suicide attempt. The steady beep of monitors provided an ominous rhythm to the scene.
As Sheila approached, Mills' eyes fluttered open. For a moment, confusion clouded his features. Then recognition dawned, and a flicker of fear passed across his face.
Not the reaction she'd expected from her mother's killer. Shouldn't he look defiant? Guilty? Instead, he looked... hunted.
"Eddie Mills," Sheila said, her voice steady despite the turmoil inside her. "I'm Sheriff Stone. Do you remember me?"
Mills nodded slowly, his voice a raspy whisper when he spoke. "Sheila... Sheila Stone. Gabriel's daughter."
Gabriel's daughter. Not 'the woman whose mother I killed.' The phrasing struck her as odd.
Sheila pulled a chair close to the bed, sitting down to bring herself eye-level with Mills. "That's right. I'm here to talk about my mother, Eddie. About the night she died."
Mills' eyes darted away, focusing on the ceiling. "I don't... I don't know what you're talking about."
"I think you do," Sheila said, leaning forward. "I know you were there that night, Eddie. You borrowed Rayland Bax's car. We can place you at the scene. What I need to know is why. Why did you kill her?"
Mills remained silent, his jaw clenching. Sheila could see the internal struggle playing out on his face. The monitors beeped faster, reflecting his agitation.
"Look," she continued, her voice softening slightly. "I've spent ten years trying to understand what happened that night. Ten years wondering why someone would want to hurt my mother. I need answers, Eddie. And I think you need to give them."
For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the steady beep of the heart monitor. Then, slowly, Mills turned his head to face Sheila. His eyes were hard, defiant.
"I'm not who you think I am," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "And neither was your mother."
Sheila felt her pulse quicken. "What do you mean?"
"Your mother..." Mills swallowed hard, his eyes darting to the door. "She wasn't just some random victim. She was looking into something. Something big."
The words hit Sheila like a physical blow. Random violence she could understand—it was senseless, but at least it made a kind of terrible sense. But this... this suggested purpose, planning. This suggested her mother had been targeted.
"What are you talking about?" Sheila pressed, leaning closer. "What was she looking into?"
Mills shook his head, fear creeping into his expression. "I can't... they're still out there. Still watching. Even in here, they have eyes everywhere."
"Who's watching, Eddie?"
His hand shot out suddenly, grabbing her wrist with surprising strength. "Ask your father about the Thompson case," he whispered urgently. "About why he really transferred out of Internal Affairs. Your mother found his old files, started asking questions..."
The heart monitor's steady beep accelerated. Mills' grip on her wrist tightened. Sheila's mind raced. Her father had never mentioned Internal Affairs—she hadn't even known he'd ever worked for them. Why would he keep something like that a secret from her? Had he just never thought to mention it…
Or had he deliberately withheld that detail about his past?
"Eddie," Sheila said, trying to keep her voice calm, "what questions was my mother asking?"
Mills continued as if he hadn't heard her. "I took Bax's car because mine was in the shop," he said, his words coming faster now. "They said it had to look random, like a burglary gone wrong. But your mother, she knew... she knew what was happening in the department. The payments, the cover-ups..."
His voice cracked. Sweat beaded on his forehead as the monitor beeped faster. Memories flooded Sheila's mind—her father's late nights at work during that period, heated phone conversations that would stop when she entered the room, her mother's worried expression as she watched him leave each morning.
"I never meant..." Mills gasped, his grip weakening. "I didn't want to hurt her. But they said they'd kill my girlfriend if I didn't..."
The monitor's beeping became erratic. Mills' eyes rolled back, his hand falling away from Sheila's wrist.
"Eddie?" Sheila stood up as his body began to convulse. "I need help in here!" she shouted toward the door.
Medical staff rushed in, pushing her aside as they worked to stabilize him. Sheila backed away, her mind reeling. What had her mother discovered? What did her father's old Internal Affairs position have to do with any of this?
And most troubling of all—why had her father never mentioned any of this?
She watched through the window as the medical team worked on Mills. Her thoughts drifted to her mother—not the mystery surrounding her death, but the small moments. The way she'd brush Sheila's hair before bed, somehow always knowing when her daughter needed that quiet comfort. The pride in her eyes when she watched Sheila train. Had she known she was in danger? Had she been trying to protect her family by keeping her investigation secret?
A doctor emerged from the room, breaking into her thoughts. "We've stabilized him," she said, "but he's unconscious. It could be hours before he comes around, maybe days. Maybe never."
Sheila nodded numbly, her mind already racing ahead. She needed to talk to her father to understand what Mills had meant about Internal Affairs. But Gabriel had been increasingly hard to reach lately, often disappearing for days at a time with vague explanations about training camps and coaching clinics.
She thought about his recent behavior—the missed calls, the vague explanations, the way he'd deflected questions about the past. She'd attributed it to grief, to his way of coping with Natalie's death.
But what if there was more to it?
She pulled out her phone, scrolling to her father's number. As expected, it went straight to voicemail. She left a brief message: "Dad, we need to talk." She paused, then added: "It's about Mom. And Internal Affairs."
That would get his attention.
Pushing herself off the wall, Sheila straightened her uniform and squared her shoulders. She'd waited ten years for answers, but this new revelation only seemed to uncover more questions. But unless Mills was lying—and Sheila thought he was far too desperate to come up with such details on the fly, or to rehearse them so convincingly—one thing was becoming clear—her mother's death wasn't the simple act of revenge she'd imagined. It was part of something much bigger, something that had roots in her own family.
And someone, somewhere, was still willing to kill to keep those secrets buried.
EPILOGUE
The sun was still rising as Sheila pulled up to her childhood home, casting long shadows across the familiar front yard. The old maple tree still stood sentinel by the driveway, a tree she'd climbed countless times as a kid while her mother tended to the flower beds below.
Those flower beds were bare now. Gabriel had never quite mastered Henrietta's green thumb.
The two-story craftsman looked exactly as it had ten years ago, down to the deep green paint and white trim. Gabriel's stubborn refusal to change anything had initially frustrated Sheila. "You can't live in a museum," she'd told him once. But his reply had silenced her: "This was your mother's dream house. She spent five years designing every detail. I won't let them take that from her, too."
Them. She'd taken it as a vague reference to whoever was responsible for her mother's death… but was it possible her father had known exactly whom he was referring to?
Whatever the case, the house remained unchanged, a memorial to Henrietta Stone and the life that had been stolen from her. The only difference was the security system Gabriel had installed after her death—top of the line, with cameras covering every approach. Sheila noticed the red recording light blinking above the porch. Her father would know she'd been here.
Why did that make her uneasy?
She'd spent all night stewing on what Mills had told her: playing it over and over in her head, dissecting it, trying to decide whether or not she could believe him. The bottom line was that she needed to look into it. Maybe it was all nonsense, but she couldn't assume that. She needed to speak with her father.
And Finn… well, Finn was in the hospital, recovering. He'd want to know what was going on, but there was no sense telling him before she had anything substantial to report.
Sheila climbed out of her vehicle. The porch steps creaked in exactly the same places they always had. She raised her hand to knock, then hesitated. Through the decorative window in the front door, she could see the entrance hall was dark.
She knocked anyway. No answer.
She was fishing her phone from her pocket when a voice called out: "He's not home!"
Sheila turned to see Mr. Whitaker, their neighbor for the past thirty years, waving from his driveway next door. He was wearing his usual cardigan despite the warm morning.
"Evening, Mr. Whitaker," she called back.
"Come to check on your old man?" he asked, ambling over to the low fence that separated their properties. "He headed out yesterday. Had his fishing gear with him."
Sheila frowned. "Fishing? Did he say where?"
"Nope. But he usually hits Lake Powell this time of year. Said he needed a few days to clear his head." Mr. Whitaker squinted at her. "Everything okay? You look worried."
"Just need to talk to him about something," Sheila said, keeping her voice casual. "I'll try his cell again."
Mr. Whitaker nodded. "Tell him I'm still waiting on that rematch. He knows what I mean." With a final wave, he shuffled back toward his house, disappearing inside.
Sheila waited until his door closed, then looked up at her childhood home. The morning sunlight caught the eastern windows, making them gleam like fire. How many times had she seen that same effect while doing homework at the kitchen table, her mother humming as she cooked dinner?
Her mother. The memory surfaced suddenly—Henrietta, always worried about getting locked out, hiding a spare key inside the antler of the brass deer statue that still stood in the flower bed. "Don't tell your father," she'd whispered to Sheila with a wink. "He thinks I'm being careless, inviting a break-in, but sometimes a woman needs a backup plan."
Sheila glanced around. No sign of Mr. Whitaker—or anyone else. It was her father's house, but given what she'd heard from Mills, she felt very much like an intruder here.
Moving quickly, she crossed to the flower bed. The brass deer was weathered with age, but when she lifted its head, the key was still there.
Her hands shook slightly as she unlocked the door. The house alarm chimed softly—Gabriel hadn't changed the code either. She quickly punched in her mother's birthday to silence it.
The entryway was dark and still. The early rays of sunlight caught dust motes dancing in the air. The house smelled exactly the same—old wood, leather furniture, and the lingering ghost of her mother's favorite lavender sachets.
"Dad?" she called out, more from habit than expectation. Only silence answered.
She moved through the first floor, memories ambushing her at every turn. The living room, where they'd watched movies together as a family. The kitchen, where her mother had taught her to bake cookies. The dining room, where they'd celebrated birthdays and holidays.
Where they'd found her mother's body.
Sheila paused in the doorway, her breath catching. They'd replaced the carpet, of course, but she could still see it in her mind—the dark stains, the evidence markers, the chalk outline. She'd memorized every detail from the crime scene photos, torturing herself with them late at night when the case went cold.
Her phone buzzed, making her jump. A text from Finn: Think you'll be able to come by the hospital later? Love to see you.
She typed back quickly: Yeah, I'll come by later. Love you.
She didn't wait for his response before silencing her phone. She needed to focus.
The stairs to the second floor groaned softly under her weight. Family photos lined the wall—moments frozen in time. Sheila and Natalie in their kickboxing gear. Her brother Jason's high school graduation. Her parents' wedding day. Her mother's smile, captured forever on paper, seemed to follow her up the stairs.
Gabriel's office was at the end of the hall. The door was closed but not locked. Sheila hesitated, her hand on the knob. Was she really going to do this? Search her father's private space?
Mills' words echoed in her mind: Ask your father about the Thompson case. About why he really transferred out of Internal Affairs.
She pushed the door open.
The office was exactly as she remembered—dark wood paneling, leather chair behind the heavy desk, law enforcement commendations on the walls. The room smelled of leather and gun oil and the cigars Gabriel occasionally snuck despite quitting years ago.
Sheila moved to the desk first. The surface was neat, organized. Nothing out of place. She started opening drawers, guilt warring with determination as she rifled through her father's private papers.
Nothing looked suspicious, however. She found nothing related to Internal Affairs, nothing that suggested her father was hiding something from her. She sat in her father's chair, frustrated. What had she expected? If Gabriel was hiding something, he wouldn't leave it in plain sight.
Unless...
She studied the office walls. The wood paneling. Her father had installed it himself when they'd first moved in. She remembered him working weekends, carefully measuring and cutting each piece. She'd helped him, proud to be included in such an adult project.
She also remembered him showing her a trick—one panel, slightly different from the others, concealed a small hidden compartment. "Every man needs a place for his secrets," he'd told her with a wink.
Sheila stood, moving to the east wall. Her fingers traced the paneling, searching for the slight gap she remembered. There—almost invisible unless you knew where to look.
The panel swung open silently. Inside was a single manila folder, thick with documents. The tab was marked simply: "I.A."
Heart pounding, Sheila took the folder to the desk. The first page was a cover sheet for something called "Operation Clean Sweep." Most of the text was redacted with thick black lines.
She turned the page. Another heavily redacted document. And another. Page after page of blocked-out text, leaving only tantalizing fragments:
"...unauthorized surveillance of..."
"...Officer Thompson's allegations regarding..."
"...multiple payments traced to offshore..."
Then she found something different—a handwritten note on a scrap of paper: SHE KNOWS.
Who had written that? Her father? Sheila's stomach rolled as she considered a possibility that, until now, had seemed completely unconscionable—that her father might have, in some way or another, had something to do with her mother's death.
It didn't make sense—If he had been partly responsible, why would he help Sheila investigate the murder?—and yet…
The sound of a car door slamming outside snapped her back to the present. Footsteps on the porch. A key in the lock.
Her father was home.