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."
Rough hands patted them down, removing Sheila's backup piece from her ankle holster, Finn's from his belt. Their phones followed, tossed carelessly into a corner.
"Your father's stubborn," the Irishman continued. "Hasn't told us what we need to know yet. Maybe you'll be more cooperative."
Sheila's mind raced, cataloging details even as rage burned in her chest. Three men in the room. At least one more somewhere in the house, probably watching the perimeter. All armed with rifles—professional gear, not hunting weapons. These weren't local thugs. They were experienced, dangerous.
The Irishman moved closer, rifle trained on Sheila's chest. "Your father's been quite stubborn about Detective Thompson's old files." His accent made the words sound almost musical, a deadly lullaby.
Sheila knew he was talking about the detective who had been investigating departmental corruption before his mysterious disappearance. Internal Affairs had then handed the case to her father. The rest was history.
"We know your mother found them," the Irishman continued. "And now you've been asking the same questions she did."
"The payments," Sheila said. "Money moving through the department. That's what Thompson was investigating before he disappeared."
"Smart girl." He gestured toward one of the chairs with his rifle. "Sit."
"Those files implicated someone powerful," she continued, remaining standing. "Someone who could make a detective disappear without consequences. Someone who could order a hit on my mother and have it covered up for a decade."
The Irishman's eyes crinkled behind his mask—a smile without humor.
"And yet here you are, still digging. Just like Detective Thompson.
Just like your mother." He moved even closer.
"Your father understood, after your mother died.
Knew when to let sleeping dogs lie. But you.
.. you just couldn't help yourself, could you? "
"The money," Sheila pressed. "Where was it coming from? What's Meridian Holdings?"
"Sit down, Sheriff Stone." The rifle nudged her chest. "We have some things to discuss about the importance of family. About what happens to people who don't know when to stop asking questions."
"Was it drug money?" She ignored the rifle. "Or something bigger? Must have been significant to justify killing a detective."
"Last warning." The accent thickened with threat. "Sit. Or we start with your deputy here."
One of the other men pressed his rifle against Finn's temple. She had no choice. She sat.
"Good." The Irishman pulled another chair close, sitting across from her while keeping the rifle trained at her chest. "Now then. Who else knows what you've been investigating?"
"Nobody."
"See, I don't believe that. Your father's been asking questions about Carlton Vance. Making calls. Who's he been talking to?"
Sheila's pulse quickened. They knew about Vance. About her father's attempts to track him down.
"I told you. Nobody else knows."
"What about Meridian Holdings?" The name hung in the air like smoke. "Who else have you told about it?"
She kept her face carefully blank, though her mind raced. They were worried—worried enough to grab her father, to set this trap. Which meant she and Gabriel had been getting close to something important.
"Last chance, Sheriff." The Irishman nodded to one of his men, who produced a set of pliers. "Who else knows?"
Finn tensed beside her as the man approached him with the pliers. His eyes met hers, steady despite what was coming.
"Wait." Sheila's voice cracked. "Just... wait."
"I'm not a patient man, Sheriff Stone." The Irishman leaned forward. "And my employers are even less patient. So let's try again. Who else knows about Vance? About Meridian Holdings?"
The man with the pliers grabbed Finn's hand, forcing his fingers straight.
"Nobody knows!" The words burst from her. "I swear. We've been careful, kept everything between us."
"You're lying." The Irishman's voice carried absolute certainty. "Your father's been making calls, reaching out to old contacts. Names keep coming up—people who shouldn't be mentioned. We need to know who he's talked to."
The pliers touched Finn's index finger.
"Start with the thumbnails," the Irishman said casually. "More nerve endings."
"Please," Sheila said, her voice raw. "I swear we haven't told anyone else. Just Finn, and only because I trust him with my life."
The pliers hovered over Finn's nail. Sweat beaded on his forehead, but he remained silent, stoic.
"Dad was careful," she continued. "We both were. We knew what happened to people who talked about this."
The Irishman studied her for a long moment, his eyes cold behind the mask. Finally, he nodded, and the man with the pliers stepped back.
"I believe you," he said quietly. "Your father's not stupid. He learned that lesson with your mother." He stood, adjusting his grip on the rifle. "Finish it," he told one of his men. "Make it clean."
Ice flooded Sheila's veins. This was it—they were going to die here, in this dusty room that already held too much violence.
"Wait," she called as he turned to leave. "Why? Why did Mom have to die?"
He paused in the doorway, considering. "Your mother was an accountant.
Good with numbers. She started tracking discrepancies in the department's finances—money from drug seizures, federal grants, asset forfeitures.
Millions disappearing over decades." He turned back slightly.
"But it wasn't just the money. It was where it went. "
"Meridian Holdings," Sheila said softly.
"A shell company. But look deeper and you find something bigger—judges taking bribes to dismiss cases, politicians ensuring certain investigations go nowhere, evidence disappearing from lockup.
A whole system, carefully built over thirty years.
" His accent made the words sound almost poetic.
"Your mother followed the money. Found names that should've stayed buried. "
"So you sent Eddie Mills to kill her."
"Had to be someone outside the department. No connections. Just a man who needed money and had a grudge against cops." He shrugged. "Simple, clean. Until you started digging."
"You're the one who ordered it." The words felt like ash in her mouth. "You gave Mills the order to kill my mother."
"Nothing personal, Sheriff. Just business." He started to turn away again. "Your mother couldn't let it go. Just like you."
"And now what? You kill us too?"
"Like I said—nothing personal. But systems only work when the right people stay quiet." He nodded to his men. "Goodbye, Sheriff Stone."
"Wait." Sheila's voice cracked. "My father. Where is he?"
The Irishman paused in the doorway. "You'll see him soon enough." The words carried finality, a death sentence wrapped in soft accent.
"No." The word came out as barely a whisper. "You didn't..."
But he was already gone, boots echoing down the hall, leaving his men to finish their work. Sheila found Finn's hand, feeling the warmth of his skin against hers. His fingers squeezed once—a final gesture of comfort, of solidarity.
She thought of Star, who would now lose another guardian. Of her mother, waiting in that cold ground. Of her father, who had died trying to protect her from the very secrets that would now kill her too.
The rifles' mechanisms clicked as rounds were chambered.
Then came the sound of breaking glass from somewhere below, sharp and sudden in the dusty silence. Sheila's breath caught. Every muscle in her body tensed, straining to hear more.
For a long moment, no one moved. Even the armed men seemed frozen, heads cocked slightly as they listened.
Another sound drifted up from below—something heavy shifting against floorboards.
It could have been the old house settling, but Sheila knew better.
Someone else was down there. But friend or foe?
Either way, the tension in the room had shifted.
Their executioners' attention was split now, their confidence shaken by this unknown factor.
One of the masked men glanced at his partner. "Check it," he ordered, keeping his rifle trained on Sheila and Finn.
The second man disappeared down the stairs, his footsteps fading into silence. Sheila held her breath, every muscle coiled with tension. The remaining gunman shifted his weight nervously and moved his rifle between her and Finn as he tried to cover them both.