Page 24 of Silent Bones
As they left Peak 46, rain began to collect in the grooves of the lodge’s stone steps, and the sky was already bleeding toward twilight.
Outside, the world felt quiet, too quiet for how loud the case was suddenly becoming.
Noah cutthe outboard motor and let the momentum carry the boat into the shallows, the hull whispering against the weeds below. The lake was mostly still now, dusk bleeding purple across the ripples. Out here, alone, with the mountains shadowing the far shore, the air felt older. Unbothered.
He stepped out, boots sinking slightly into the muddy shoreline, and reached for his flashlight. It clicked on with a soft thunk, the beam slicing across damp sand, scattered pine needles, and the darker impressions of something once violent.
The tents were gone, packed up for forensics, but the outlines remained with flattened grass, snapped poles, a circle of stones that had once held fire. Noah moved through it like a memory, the scene lingering in fragments. Ash. Blood. A shoe twisted the wrong way. A broken glowstick wedged in the dirt.
There was something about returning to a crime scene long after everyone had left. Without the noise he could think. He was often able to piece together something he hadn’t noticed in the hustle of cops.
Noah walked the scene again, once, twice. Ten minutes turned into twenty as he tried to imagine how someone might approach in the middle of the night to kill them.
He paused, hearing only the lapping of the water against the shore. Then a faint sound, brush shifting. Something, or someone, moving just beyond the treeline.
He went still.
Another crack.
Then movement.
"Hey!" he called, and burst forward just as the figure bolted.
His flashlight bobbed wildly as he sprinted. Whoever it was had a head start, but not by much. Noah pushed through the undergrowth, branches slapping at his arms, breath fogging in the cooling air. The figure ducked left, toward the ridge.
"Stop!" Noah shouted.
No answer.
He gave chase. The terrain wasn’t friendly — rocks, tangled roots, uneven ground — but adrenaline flattened the pain. The figure glanced back. That was enough.
Noah lunged.
They both went down hard.
The man wheezed under him, squirming, hands up.
“Easy! Easy! I’m not resisting!”
Noah rolled him over, pinning him down.
The guy was maybe mid-40s, completely bald, with a bristly beard and a paunch spilling over his belt. His glasses had flung off somewhere, and his coat was dotted with burrs.
“Who the hell are you?”
“Miles Banning!” he wheezed. “A podcaster! I was just curious. I swear, I’m not here to mess anything up!”
Noah caught his breath. “You trespassed on an active crime scene.”
“I didn’t take anything! I just... stepped into it.”
“You ran from me.”
“Wouldn’t you?”
Noah stood, pulling the man up with him. “Start explaining.”
Miles brushed dirt off his flannel shirt, breathing hard. “I hostGone Squatchin’. Maybe you’ve heard of it?” He took out a phone and showed Noah.
