Silent Night, page 3
Sheila's heart raced. "What’s the lead?"
Gabe ran a hand through his graying hair, his eyes never leaving the horses. "There was a partial license plate captured on a traffic camera outside our house on the night Henrietta was murdered. I've been investigating junkyards, combing through records for a vehicle that matches the description, and I think I've finally found it."
A mixture of excitement and fear surged through Sheila as she processed the information. Her hands clenched into fists at her side, her nails digging into her palms.
"I haven't personally laid eyes on it, though," Gabe continued, "so it's possible—"
"What are we waiting for?" Sheila asked, unable to contain her excitement. "Let's get over there!"
"Before we do anything, I need a reassurance from you, Sheila," he said, turning to face her, his eyes filled with resolve. "Look me in the eye and promise me that this isn't some revenge mission. That if we find the person responsible for killing Mom, you'll do the right thing, like she would've wanted."
As soon as she had heard the words, Sheila knew she could make no such promise. How many times had she listened to her dad or her sister tell her stories of bad guys who got away with their crimes because of a loophole or some other flaw in the justice system? As much as she wanted to believe such cases were the exception, she had to accept the fact that identifying their mother's killer and proving his guilt were two different things, and there was a very real scenario in which they might have to live with the knowledge that the murderer who had stolen Mom from them got to enjoy his freedom, safe beyond the reach of the law.
Could Sheila accept that?
"Sheila?" her father asked, studying her closely. "Do you understand what I'm asking you?"
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Of course, Dad. By the book as always, right?"
"Right." He stared at her a few seconds longer, evaluating her.
"So," she said, "are we going to get going or just keep wasting daylight?"
He rubbed at his face, and when he looked at her again, that hint of suspicion in his eyes was gone. He pushed off from the fence and headed toward the truck. "Come on—no time to waste."
“Where are we going?”
“To the junkyard to find that car—I hope. It's in gang territory, though, so we'll have to be careful, especially if I run into any of the guys I put away."
Sheila followed him, realizing now that her father had invited her along not just because she was personally invested in what they discovered, but also because he needed extra muscle, a role she was more than happy to fill.
And then, she thought, we'll get justice for Mom—with or without the approval of the justice system.
CHAPTER TWO
Sheila sat up straighter in the truck, puzzled by the detour they had taken.
What does this place have to do with Mom’s murder? she wondered.
The neighborhood they had entered was a stark contrast to the picturesque town of Coldwater, where Sheila had grown up. Abandoned buildings with boarded-up windows lined the streets, their walls covered in graffiti. Trash littered the sidewalks, and the few people who were already up at this hour wore expressions that spoke of exhaustion and hopelessness.
Sheila couldn't help but feel a mix of sadness and unease as they drove past a group of young men huddled together on a corner, their hands exchanging small plastic bags for crumpled bills. She knew that drugs and crime were rampant in this part of town, but seeing it firsthand made her heart sink.
"Dad, what are we doing here?" she asked, her eyes never leaving the desolate scene outside. "I thought we were going to the junkyard to look for that vehicle."
Gabe glanced at his daughter before turning his attention back to the road. "We are, Sheila," he replied in a steady voice. "But I need to take care of an errand first. Just wait in the truck while I'm gone, okay?"
"Errand? Here?" Her brow furrowed in confusion, but before she could press him further, Gabe pulled up beside one of the dilapidated buildings and killed the engine.
"I’ll only be a minute,” he said, opening the door and stepping out onto the cracked pavement.
Sheila’s eyes never left her father as he strode purposefully toward one of the buildings. He raised a hand and knocked, the sound sharp in the still morning air. The door creaked open to reveal a harried-looking woman with disheveled hair, a baby bouncing on her hip as she tried to balance the infant and a cigarette in one hand. Their voices were too low for Sheila to make out the words, but she could see the woman nod before stepping aside to let Gabe in.
"Who is she?" Sheila wondered, her fingers worrying the fabric of her jeans. It struck her that she had been so consumed by her kickboxing career that she knew very little about her father's life beyond their shared love for sports. The realization made her feel guilty and curious in equal measure.
Bored, she decided to check her phone. There were no new messages, however. With a sigh, she shoved the device back into her pocket and opened the truck door, stepping onto the broken sidewalk. A shiver ran down her spine as she surveyed the poverty-stricken neighborhood, the dilapidated houses like decaying teeth in a crooked smile.
As she paced, trying to shake off the heavy atmosphere, Sheila caught fragments of an argument spilling out from one of the nearby houses. The man's voice was gruff, slurring his words as if intoxicated or drugged, while the woman countered with shrill defiance.
"We're done, Carl!" she shouted. "You hear me? Done!"
"Oh, yeah?" he answered truculently. "Just like last time, huh? Running off to your mother's again, all because I had the balls to teach the little brat a lesson?"
Listening to the heated exchange, Sheila felt an involuntary shudder run through her. She couldn't help but imagine the kind of life the children in this neighborhood must have, surrounded by drugs and violence from such an early age. It was a far cry from her own upbringing, and she found herself feeling grateful for the sacrifices her parents had made to give her a better life.
Is that why Dad came here? Sheila thought, her eyes flicking back to the building where her father had disappeared. Is he trying to help someone like that woman and her child? The possibility stirred a surge of pride within her, mixed with a newfound determination to understand and support her father's endeavors, whatever they might be.
The front door of the house creaked open, drawing Sheila's gaze again. Gabe stepped out onto the cracked sidewalk, his familiar broad-shouldered silhouette cast in sharp relief by the early morning sun. Behind him, a girl of about fourteen followed with an air of indifference, as if she couldn't care less about the world around her. She had unkempt, shoulder-length dark hair that framed a face etched with defiance. Her eyes were shadowed and wary, and her clothes hung off her thin frame, suggesting a lack of proper nourishment.
The girl climbed into the back seat of the truck without a word or even a glance in Sheila's direction, slamming the door shut behind her. Sheila raised an eyebrow at her father.
Gabe offered a reassuring half-smile before climbing into the driver's seat, leaving Sheila with no choice but to slip into her own seat. As Gabe started the engine, he introduced the two young women.
"Sheila, this is Star," he said, glancing in the rearview mirror. "Star, meet my daughter, Sheila."
"Star? That's a beautiful name," Sheila said, turning to catch the girl's eye in an attempt to initiate conversation. However, Star simply stared out the window, her expression unchanging, as if she hadn't heard a word. It was clear she had no interest in engaging with either of them.
Sheila frowned, puzzled by the girl's behavior and wondering what her story was. She glanced at her father, who seemed to be focused entirely on driving, but she could sense the weight of unspoken thoughts behind his steady gaze.
As the truck bounced over potholes and cracked asphalt, Sheila couldn't contain her curiosity any longer. "How do you know Star, Dad?" she asked, stealing a glance at the girl in the rearview mirror. Star's eyes remained fixed on the passing scenery, her face an unreadable mask.
Gabe's grip on the steering wheel tightened for a moment before he replied. "I'm a friend of her family's. Been taking her to the gym now and then."
"And you thought it would be a good idea to bring her along with us to this junkyard?" Sheila lowered her voice, but even so Star heard her.
"Why?" Star asked. "What's at the junkyard?"
Sheila hesitated, recalling what her father had said about gang territory. "Nothing," she answered. "It's just that—"
"Just that we might run into some former acquaintances who are not so friendly," Gabe said. "But we can handle ourselves, can't we, Sheila?"
Looking at him, Sheila thought of all the times her dad had brought her and Natalie to run similar "errands," checking up on suspects and investigating leads when he was supposedly off-duty. He'd always been careful to insulate his daughters from any danger, and even though there was still some risk involved, Sheila appreciated the way he'd involved his daughters in his life.
Now, he was doing the same thing with Star. It might seem reckless to some…but then again, maybe Star didn't have any better alternatives. This certainly seemed better than her staying home.
"Of course," Sheila said, giving her dad a smile. She looked at Star. "One thing you'll learn about my dad, if you haven't already: Life's always an adventure around him. But he'll look out for you."
Star nodded noncommittally, her thoughts hidden behind her glassy gaze. She turned her attention to her phone as she tried to plug it into the charger.
"Stupid thing," she muttered as she jabbed the charger at the plug.
"What's wrong?" Sheila asked.
"My dad stepped on it, and now it doesn't fit right." There was a note of despair in the girl's voice. Faced with such a chaotic home life, the phone must have been a lifeline to Star, a world of possibilities she could escape into. Sheila could only imagine how difficult it would be for Star to go without it.
"Here," Sheila said, opening the glove box. "I think my old charger's still in here." She fished it out, then handed it back to Star. Their eyes met for a moment, and there was a gleam of something in Star's gaze—gratitude at being treated like a human being, perhaps.
"Thanks," Star muttered, taking the charger. It fit easily into the plug, and a moment later her phone lit up as it began charging. She was so engrossed in the device.
As Sheila faced forward again, she thought of how she might engage Star in conversation. "So," she asked, "are you in school, Star?"
Gabe exhaled slowly. "You see, Sheila, school isn't really an option right now."
Sheila caught the subtle implication behind his words, and she suspected Star had been suspended from school. As she mulled over this new piece of information, her gaze wandered back to the receding neighborhood, its worn-down buildings and graffiti-covered walls casting long shadows in the early morning light.
Images of what life must be like for a girl like Star played out in Sheila's mind. She imagined Star navigating the treacherous landscape of poverty and crime day after day, struggling to stay afloat amidst the chaos that threatened to consume her. It was a stark contrast to the structured, disciplined world of competitive kickboxing that Sheila had known growing up.
Her life must be so rough, Sheila thought, her heart aching for the girl sitting quietly behind her. She noticed the way Star's thin fingers fidgeted with a frayed edge of her hoodie, and she suddenly felt a surge of gratitude for her father. Gabe, who had always been there to guide her through challenging times, was now extending a helping hand to Star.
She didn't have long to ponder this, however. The sight of the junkyard soon loomed in front of them, a sprawling wasteland of rusted metal and decaying vehicles. Sheila's heartbeat quickened as her eyes scanned the vast graveyard of abandoned cars, trucks, and machinery. The sun glinted off twisted metal, casting eerie shadows that seemed to dance and flicker like ghosts of the past. She couldn't help but wonder if among these forsaken remnants lay the key to unraveling the mystery of her mother's death.
"Here we are," Gabe announced as he slowed the truck, his voice jolting Sheila from her thoughts. Her anticipation swelled, a mixture of fear and excitement coursing through her veins. Any of the many cars stacked in crushed towers could potentially be the one they were looking for, a crucial piece in the puzzle that had haunted her for so long.
As Gabe pulled up in front of the office building, Sheila noticed the locked gate beside it. A group of rough-looking figures lounged around the building, their intimidating presences setting her on edge. Their eyes followed the truck, sizing them up.
"Looks like we've got company," Gabe muttered, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. One of the men spat on the ground while another leaned against the wall, smoking a cigarette with a sneer on his lips. A third man stood apart from the rest, his arms crossed over his barrel chest, looking as immovable as a mountain.
Gabe looked at Sheila. "How's your head?" he asked.
Sheila knew he was referring to the brain injury she'd received over a month ago. In the face of these menacing figures, her Olympic-level kickboxing skills might be the difference between success and failure. She clenched her fists, feeling the reassuring solidity of her knuckles against her palms.
"Good to go," she said.
Gabe looked doubtful, as if regretting his decision to bring her. "We'll talk our way through if we can, alright? The last thing we need is for you to get hurt again."
"And if talking doesn't work? If they decide to show how tough they are?"
Gabe clenched his jaw. "If one of them takes a swing at my daughter, we'll give them hell, you and I both. You can take that to the bank."
CHAPTER THREE
The dust swirled around Sheila's feet as she and her father approached the trio of tough-looking men loitering in front of the junkyard's office building. The sun bore down on them, making her squint against its glare. She glanced back at the truck where Star was sitting, fidgeting with something in her hands.
"Are you sure Star will be alright?" Sheila asked, her voice laced with concern.
Gabe didn't even break stride as he replied, "She'll be safe in the truck, Sheila. A lot safer than she'd be at home." His tone held an edge that made her wonder what he meant by that, but there was no time to dwell on it as they drew closer to the men.
"Can I help you?" one of the men asked gruffly, crossing his arms over his chest. He stood slightly taller than the others, with a muscular build and a buzz cut that seemed to emphasize the intimidating tattoos crawling up his neck and disappearing under his shirt. The inked images were a mix of skulls, flames, and other symbols that hinted at a troubled life. His eyes narrowed as they scrutinized Gabe and Sheila, sizing them up.
"We're looking for a specific vehicle," Gabe said politely, maintaining eye contact with the tattooed man. "We have reason to believe it might be here."
"What's so special about this vehicle?" the man demanded, his suspicion evident in the single word.
"Family matter," Gabe replied with a vague wave of his hand. "It has…sentimental value, and there was a misunderstanding. Never should have ended up here." Sheila could see her father's years of experience working as a cop coming to play, as he remained calm and composed even in the face of potential danger.
Her heart raced as she watched the exchange between the two men, her fists clenched tightly at her sides. She knew she had the skills to protect herself and her father if necessary, but she couldn't help but worry about Star sitting alone in the truck. The young girl had already been through so much, and Sheila didn't want to expose her to any more danger than necessary.
"Are you cops?" the tattooed man asked, his eyes narrowing as he scrutinized Gabe and Sheila.
Gabe shook his head. "No," he said. That was technically accurate, since he was a retired cop and Sheila was only thinking about training to be one. "We just need to find that vehicle."
"Sorry, junkyard's closed," the man said dismissively. "Come back tomorrow."
Sheila frowned, frustrated by the stranger's hostility. "He's just jerking your chain," she said to her father in a low voice.
Gabe didn't seem surprised by her observation. He'd likely reached the same conclusion himself. Channeling his years of experience as a former sheriff, he casually said, "You know, I might not be police, but I do have some friends on the force, and I couldn't help but notice a few things as we came in—minor infractions that, if noticed by the right people, could cause some problems for your business."
The tattooed man's eyes darted around suspiciously. "What the hell are you talking about?"
Gabe continued, pointing out each issue with an air of. "That stack of tires over there is too high, for one thing—it's a fire hazard. Also, your fence is broken in several places, which could be considered an attractive nuisance. And I'm pretty sure that leaking oil drum is an environmental violation."
As Gabe spoke, Sheila watched the man's expression shift from annoyance to uncertainty. She could feel her own heart pounding in her chest. This was a high-stakes gamble, but she trusted her father's instincts.
"Look," Gabe said finally, putting on an amiable tone. "We don't want any trouble. We just need to see if that car is here. Let us in, and we'll forget about all those little problems."
The tattooed man's face contorted with anger as he took a menacing step forward, his eyes locked on Gabe. "Are you threatening me?" he asked, his voice dripping with venom.
Sheila instinctively stepped forward to meet him, her posture ready and alert. The man's gaze flicked over to her, and a cruel smile spread across his face. "Be careful, little lady. Wouldn't want you to chip a nail."
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