Page 14 of Silent Bones
But not away from the truth.
The woods grew tighter the farther they followed the broken trail. Callie moved behind Noah in silence, one hand resting near her belt as her eyes scanned the branches. The faint path twisted through shallow rises and muddy gullies, marked by fresh scuffs and crushed moss. It wasn’t a game trail, it was too erratic, too abrupt in its turns.
Then something glinted.
Noah slowed, crouched. Near a web of roots, caught between dirt and bark, was a small clear bag. Almost invisible unless the sun hit it just right. He leaned in, careful not to disturb the surrounding area.
A crystal residue clung to the inside corners.
“Callie,” he said without looking up, “you carry a field kit?”
She stepped beside him, eyebrows tightening. “Always.” She unclipped the green nylon pouch from her pack and handed him a NIK Test G kit.
Noah snapped the ampoules one by one, shaking the mixture until the reagent inside bloomed into a cloudy amber.
“Looks like meth,” he muttered. “Though nowadays it could be a dozen things. Tox’ll confirm.”
He sealed the bag and dropped it into an evidence envelope, labeling it with a GPS coordinate he called aloud for his recorder.
Callie crossed her arms. “Drugs might explain this. One bad dose, maybe a freakout. Things spiral.”
Noah shook his head. “Spiral looks different. Spiral doesn’t slash tents like a message. This feels controlled. Like it was meant to be seen.”
McKenzie’s voice chimed in from behind them as he came up the rear. “Or meant to mislead.”
They turned as he stepped through the brush, wiping sweat from his brow with his forearm. “I’ll bet my pension those tufts of hair aren’t bear.”
Noah looked at the trail ahead, where it curved back toward the lake. “Someone wants us chasing ghosts.”
McKenzie’s radio crackled.
He thumbed the side. “Go ahead.”
A voice came through, one of the uniformed rangers stationed back at the main shore. “You requested the location of Campsite 65. Registered to a Logan Forrester.”
Noah’s eyes narrowed. “Right. How far is that from here?”
The ranger muttered something over the radio.
“We’ve been there. It’s less than half a klick through the woods,” McKenzie replied.
Noah was already moving.
Ten minutes later, they pushed through a break in the trees and entered a narrow clearing overlooking the lake. A tan backpacking tent stood under a crooked pine, flap open like a gaping mouth. No sign of struggle. No torn seams, no blood.
The gear was intact: a flashlight lay beside the sleeping bag, still powered on and half-drained. A trail mix bag sat open on a log, with ants threading their way through the melted chocolate. A phone battery pack blinked red from inside a gear pouch.
But the boots were the thing that caught Noah’s attention.
Size twelve hiking boots, caked in dry mud, sat side-by-side near the tent opening like someone had taken them off before going to bed. Not like someone who fled.
“No blood, no noise complaints,” McKenzie said behind him. “He signed in. But never signed out.”
Noah bent, opening the tent gently. Inside, it was orderly. A pillow, a compact sleeping mat, a journal. Logan hadn’t just vanished. He’dleft, and left like someone planning to return. But there was a boat still docked. Callie peered into it.
“All the gear is still here. Perhaps the camper went hiking.”
“Possibly,” Noah said.
