Silent House, page 9
He hurried to the alarm system, entered the code, and disarmed it. Then, relaxing, he began to make his way to the living room.
It was time to introduce himself.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The break room's harsh fluorescent light flickered above, casting a cold glow on the linoleum floor. Sheila leaned against the vending machine, its hum filling the silence between questions. Finn stood nearby, arms crossed and observing.
"Tell me, Cameron," she began, her voice steady despite her growing exhaustion from the lateness of the hour. "How did you know Roy Hubbard?"
Cameron Fintner smiled wistfully, his blue eyes distant as if peering into the past. "We were in a band together at Mildred Heights—the Black Jesters, we called ourselves. I was the drummer, and Roy played bass. Man, those were the days." He chuckled, running a hand through his short-cropped hair. His smile revealed a boyishness that stood in sharp contrast to his tough cop exterior.
The break room buzzed with activity as officers and staff members took advantage of the brief respite from their duties. The space was cramped, filled with mismatched tables and chairs, a coffee machine that had seen better days, and a vending machine that seemed to hold a grudge against everyone who used it. The walls were adorned with faded posters detailing safety protocols and various commendations. In one corner, an old television set droned on, its flickering images casting eerie shadows across the room.
Sheila studied Cameron carefully, trying to gauge his sincerity. He seemed friendly, open even, with an easygoing demeanor that made her want to trust him instinctively. He had a square jaw and broad shoulders, a testament to years of physical training. Despite the uniform, though, he didn't seem like a typical cop—there was something about him that felt almost artistic, a spark of creativity hidden beneath the surface.
"What kind of music did you guys play?" she asked, curious to learn more about this connection between Roy and Cameron.
"Mostly punk rock and grunge," Cameron replied, his voice laced with nostalgia. "We'd jam all night in Roy's garage, just letting our emotions flow through the music. It was raw, it was real." He sighed. "I miss those sessions sometimes."
As Sheila listened, she couldn't help but wonder how someone like Cameron ended up working as a police officer, trading in his drumsticks for a badge and gun. People changed, she knew that, but there was something about the way he spoke of the past that made her think the transition hadn't been an easy one.
"Why did the band break up?" Finn asked. "I read somewhere that there was some bad blood because of it."
Cameron chuckled, shaking his head. "Bad blood? Let me guess, you read about it on that cheesy old blog, the Jesters Chronicle?"
Sheila and Finn waited, watching Cameron.
He sighed, dropping the smile. "Sure, there was a bit of a division at first—some of us wanted to keep the band together while others were ready to move on. But we all reconciled eventually. Nobody held a grudge against anyone."
"Really?" Finn asked skeptically, leaning back in his chair. "No lingering resentment? No hurt feelings?"
Cameron shrugged, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Life's too short for grudges, man. Besides, we were young and stupid, full of big dreams and unrealistic expectations. We all just needed to grow up, you know?"
"Tell me, Cameron," Sheila began, her voice low and steady as she leaned against the table, "did you keep in touch with Roy after high school?"
Cameron paused for a moment, his eyes reflecting a distant memory. "We talked once or twice over the years," he admitted. "Always bringing up the idea of getting the band back together for a night, but it never happened." His expression turned somber, the weight of Roy's death and that of his family members settling heavily upon his shoulders. "I just wish we had one more chance, you know?"
Sheila nodded, sensing the raw emotion behind Cameron's words. She took a deep breath, inhaling the bitter scent of stale coffee and old linoleum that permeated the room. It grounded her, reminding her of the importance of the task at hand. "What can you tell me about him?" she asked. "What was he like?"
"Roy was a stand-up guy," Cameron said without hesitation. "A loyal friend, always there for you when you needed him. He was athletic, too—played football and ran track in school. And he met Jane, his wife, at the high school." Cameron's face softened at the mention of Jane, his voice taking on a nostalgic tone. "They were great together. You could tell they were meant to be. Everyone knew they'd end up married."
As Cameron spoke, Sheila could see the genuine affection he held for Roy and his family. She couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy for the man who had lost someone so dear to him. But she also knew that, in this line of work, emotions could be a double-edged sword—they could either propel you forward or drag you down into a dark abyss from which there was no escape.
Finn leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as he contemplated Cameron's words. "Did Roy have any enemies? Anyone who might've wanted to hurt him or his family?"
At first, Cameron shook his head, but then he hesitated, biting his lower lip. "Actually," he began cautiously, "There was this one girl back in high school, an ex-girlfriend of Roy's. Lisa Cartwright—she was a homecoming queen. They broke up, and on graduation day, she made a big scene, accusing Roy of abusing her."
"What kind of abuse?" Finn asked.
Cameron frowned, looking genuinely puzzled. "I never got the full story, to be honest. It was so long ago, and most folks didn't pay it much mind. Roy denied everything, of course, and there wasn't any evidence to back up her claims."
Sheila watched Cameron carefully, trying to gauge his sincerity. "So, what happened after that?"
"Nothing really," Cameron replied, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. "Everyone just kind of chalked the matter up to Lisa being...well...Lisa. Between you and me, I always thought she was a bit...unstable. Dramatic, you know? It's possible she made the whole thing up just for attention. But like I said, I haven't kept up with her, so I don't know where she is or what she's doing now."
As he spoke, Sheila couldn't help but remember her own experiences in high school—the petty rivalries, the desperate need for validation. Could Lisa Cartwright still hold a grudge against Roy Hubbard all these years later? And if so, would she go so far as to murder his entire family?
Cameron glanced at the wall clock and sighed. "My break's over. I need to get back to work."
"Thanks for your time, Cameron," Sheila said, offering a warm smile as she shook his hand.
Finn nodded in agreement. "We appreciate it."
As Cameron left the break room, the door swung shut behind him with a quiet click, leaving Sheila and Finn alone amid the hum of vending machine and the faint smell of burnt coffee. They exchanged a glance, assessing each other's thoughts.
"What do you think about this ex-girlfriend, Lisa Cartwright?" Sheila asked, her brow furrowed.
Finn leaned back against the counter, arms crossed. "Seems odd that someone would hold onto a grievance for so many years, but people can be unpredictable."
"True," Sheila said. "Maybe Roy's decision to move back to the area rekindled the old grievance. Either way, we should find her and see what we can learn."
"Agreed."
Sheila pulled out her phone, tapping the screen as she searched for Lisa Cartwright's name in the hope of finding an address. As she scrolled through the results, her eyes caught on an article written almost twenty years earlier. The headline made her heart drop: 'Local Woman Found Dead in Apparent Suicide'. She clicked on the article, scanning the text for more information.
"Listen to this," she said, her voice somber. "A few years after dropping out of high school, Lisa Cartwright committed suicide by overdosing on prescription medication. Her friends described her as troubled and distant, but they never expected her to take her own life."
"Damn," Finn muttered, running a hand through his hair. "That's tragic."
Sheila continued reading, her eyes widening as she found a quote from Lisa's father, Albert. 'As far as I'm concerned, someone did this to her.She wouldn't have done such a thing, not if she hadn't gone through such terrible suffering. And the person who did it is going to pay the price—I'll make sure of it.'
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
As Finn's car tires crunched over the gravel driveway, the headlights illuminated an old farmhouse nestled in a desolate landscape. Sheila squinted at her phone, reading the article about Lisa Cartwright's suicide.
"Do you think Albert Cartwright could be talking about Roy Hubbard when he says someone hurt Lisa?" she asked.
Finn shifted the car into park and turned off the engine. The night swallowed them in darkness, the only sound being their breathing and the distant hooting of an owl. "It's the obvious explanation," he said. "A grieving father, steeped in bitterness for the past twenty years, and the man who he blames for his daughter's death shows up in town again?" He shook his head sadly. "Sounds like motive to me."
The farmhouse belonging to Albert loomed before them, its weathered façade a testament to years of neglect. Paint peeled from the siding, revealing the bare wood beneath. A few windows were cracked or broken, while others were boarded up entirely. It was late at night, and the area around the house was eerily quiet, save for the wind whispering through the tall grass that surrounded the property. The whole scene seemed frozen in time, like a faded photograph from a forgotten past.
"Come on," Finn said, opening the car door and stepping out into the cold night air. Sheila followed suit, tucking her phone into her pocket and pulling her coat tighter around herself.
Sheila's eyes darted to the left, taking in the sight of an old garage that stood nearby. Its wooden frame was weather-beaten and warped from years of exposure to the harsh elements. The faded green paint flaked away, clinging to the rustic hinges and handles. Shadows crept along the walls, cast by the dim moonlight that spilled through the partly open door.
I wonder what's in there, Sheila thought, making a mental note of the building.
As they approached the farmhouse's front door, Sheila hesitated for a moment before knocking firmly. She instinctively tensed her muscles, prepared for whatever might come next.
The door creaked open, revealing a man in his sixties. His features were worn and haggard, with deep lines etched into his face. A pair of tired, bloodshot eyes peered out from under a mop of unkempt gray hair, while a rough beard covered his chin and neck. He wore an old flannel shirt, frayed at the edges, and a pair of faded jeans stained with grease and dirt.
"Can I help you?" he asked, his voice gruff and wary. Beside him, a large dog growled lowly, its hackles raised. The man held onto the dog's collar with one hand, preventing it from lunging at Finn and Sheila.
"Hi, are you Albert Cartwright?" Sheila asked, trying to keep her voice steady despite the rising tension she felt within her.
"Yeah, that's me," Albert replied, still looking puzzled by their presence. "What do you want?"
"It's about your daughter Lisa," Sheila said carefully, watching the man's expression for any hint of what he might be thinking.
"Lisa?" The old man's eyes seemed to soften. "What about her?"
"I think it would be better if we talked inside," Finn said.
Albert stared at them a moment longer, looking undecided. Then, tightening his grip on the dog's collar, he stepped back to let them in.
The interior of the old farmhouse was rustic, with shadows clinging to the worn wallpaper and faded family portraits hanging on the walls. A threadbare couch faced an ancient television set, and stacks of newspapers and magazines formed a precarious tower in one corner. The smell of dust and stale air filled their nostrils as they stepped farther into the living room. It was clear that Albert lived alone, the lack of any personal touches or warmth evident in every nook and cranny.
"Please, have a seat," Albert said, motioning to the couch as he pulled up a wooden chair for himself. He settled in, the dog resting obediently at his feet, its dark eyes still fixed on the strangers in their midst.
"Thank you," Sheila said, glancing around the room before taking a seat on the couch, Finn joining her. She took a deep breath and steeled herself for what might be an uncomfortable conversation. "As I mentioned earlier, we'd like to talk to you about your daughter Lisa."
"Alright," Albert replied hesitantly, his fingers absently stroking the dog's head. "What about her?"
Finn leaned forward, his voice steady and calm. "We're investigating the deaths of the Hubbard family, and we believe there may be a connection between them and your daughter."
Albert's body stiffened, his eyes narrowing slightly. "That's a terrible shame, what happened to those folks. But I don't see what it has to do with my daughter."
Sheila watched him carefully, her instincts telling her that he was hiding something. Still, she couldn't quite put her finger on what it was. She tried to keep her tone gentle, knowing that discussing Lisa would be painful for Albert. "We understand that this is difficult for you, Mr. Cartwright, but we need your help. Any information you can give us about Lisa's relationship with Roy Hubbard might be crucial."
"Lisa...and Roy?" Albert repeated, his voice betraying a hint of bitterness. "It's been years since they were in high school together. Why would that matter now?"
"Can you tell us about Lisa's relationship with Roy back when they were in high school?" Sheila asked, sidestepping the question.
Albert's hand moved to stroke the dog by his side, but his fingers clenched around its fur as he began to speak. "Roy was...not good for my Lisa. He was controlling, always trying to dictate her every move. Abusive, too."
"How did you react to that, Mr. Cartwright?" Finn asked, stoic as ever.
"It's all water under the bridge now," Albert said, waving a dismissive hand. "It's been so long since those days; I hardly remember the details anymore." His gaze drifted away from them, focusing on something unseen in the distance.
Sheila didn't buy it. There was something off about the way Albert spoke, as if he were repressing a storm of emotions beneath the surface. But she held her tongue, knowing that pressing him further might only make him more resistant to their questioning.
Finn leaned forward, undeterred by Albert's evasions. "How did you feel when you learned that Roy Hubbard, the man who drove your daughter to commit suicide, had moved back into the area?"
Albert's eyes flicked away from Finn, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "I'm tired," he mumbled, avoiding the question. "It's late, and I need to head to bed." The weariness in his voice didn't quite match the tension in his posture, but it was clear he wasn't up for any more talking.
"Of course," Sheila said, standing up and offering Albert a tight smile. "We appreciate your time, and we're sorry to have kept you up."
"Thank you," Albert replied, his tone curt as he showed them to the door.
As they stepped outside, the chill night air brushed against their faces, and Finn turned to Sheila. "We should come back in the morning. Maybe he'll be more willing to talk then."
Sheila nodded absently, not really listening to him. Her gaze was drawn to the open garage door nearby, curiosity tugging at her thoughts. What could be inside? Why had Albert been so cagey about Lisa and Roy?
"Hey, Sheila? Are you okay?" Finn asked, concern etched on his face.
"I'll meet you at the car," she said, her curiosity getting the better of her. "I'll be there in a minute."
He looked at her questioningly, but she waved him away.
As she headed toward the garage, she could feel her heart pounding in her chest, her instincts as an athlete and fighter telling her there was something important waiting for her inside.
As she approached the entrance, she carefully peeked into the dimly lit space. Tools of various shapes and sizes were scattered all over the place, some hanging on the walls while others were strewn haphazardly across a workbench. Amidst the clutter, several projects seemed to be in progress: a half-assembled engine block, woodworking equipment covered in sawdust, and an old bicycle with its chain hanging loose.
Her gaze darted around the room, searching for anything out of the ordinary. Then, her eyes locked onto something that sent a shiver down her spine. A pile of rope lay coiled in one corner, frayed ends dangling loosely. It looked eerily similar to the rope used to hang the Hubbards. Next to it, an old hunting knife glinted menacingly under the faint light, its blade stained with what might have been rust.
Or blood.
"What the hell are you doing?" a voice behind her yelled, causing her to jump. She turned around to see Albert glaring at her from the porch, his face contorted with anger, a shotgun in his hand. The dog growled beside him, teeth bared and hackles raised.
"Drop the weapon, Albert," Sheila said calmly, her voice steady despite the fear gnawing at her insides.
"Like hell I will! First, you come here dredging up my daughter's suicide, and now you're breaking into my garage? I've had enough!"
Sheila's heart pounded in her chest as she watched the veins bulging in Albert's neck, his face flushed with rage. She could feel the tension crackling in the air, the electricity of danger humming around them.
He's going to shoot me, she thought, numb with shock. He's really going to do it.
"Albert, please," she said, her eyes locked on the shotgun's barrel. "We don't want anyone to get hurt."
"You should have left me alone!" Albert roared, his finger trembling dangerously close to pulling the trigger. Sheila held her breath, her mind racing for a solution, for any way to defuse the situation and save both their lives.
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