Page 16 of Silent Bones
“This wasn’t just some drug-fueled campfire party gone wrong,” he muttered.
His voice barely rose above the breeze.
5
The interior of McKenzie’s cruiser ticked faintly as it cooled, the engine shut off at the curb. Neither man moved to open the doors.
Across the street, the Strudwell house sat behind a manicured lawn, the porch strung with last season’s white lights that hadn’t yet been taken down. The trees overhead whispered in the breeze, casting dappled shadows over the driveway.
“Place like this is meant to be safe,” McKenzie murmured, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “You raise your kids right, put them in good schools, feed them quinoa and kale, make ’em wear helmets. You think that’ll keep the wolves away.”
Noah didn’t respond. He was staring at the neighborhood.
“I’m just saying,” McKenzie added, quieter now, “this kind of thing… it’s not supposed to reach a house like that.”
Noah opened the door. “Tell that to the wolves.”
They walked up the front path together, shoes crunching softly on the gravel border that lined the flowerbeds. The door opened before they even knocked.
Mrs. Strudwell stood there in a pale blue sweater, her hands clenched on either side of the doorframe as if she were holdingthe house up by force of will. Her hair was pulled back too tightly. Eyes red, hollowed. She didn’t say a word, just stepped back and opened the door wider.
Inside, the house smelled of lemon polish and brewed coffee. A muted television flickered in the corner of the living room. On-screen, a local anchor stood in a boat, a yellow perimeter of tape flapping behind her.
Mr. Strudwell sat on the edge of a leather ottoman, elbows on knees, face clenched as if bracing for impact. His tie hung crooked, half-undone. A watch gleamed on his wrist, the kind of thing people usually remove before collapsing under bad news. He hadn’t taken it off.
“Mr. and Mrs. Strudwell,” Noah began, voice measured. “I’m Detective Noah Sutherland with BCI, and this is Detective Angus McKenzie.”
“He’s dead, isn’t he?” she asked quickly, too quickly.
Noah hesitated. “We’re still conducting an active search. But… four members of the group have been confirmed deceased.”
The words hit like buckshot.
Mrs. Strudwell didn’t fall, but her knees gave just enough that she caught herself on the edge of a side table. McKenzie moved reflexively to steady her, but she waved him off. Her voice, when it came, was a whisper ripped raw. “Four?”
Noah kept his tone even. “Stephen is still unaccounted for. His name was on the permit roster. His phone was found near the scene. But we haven’t confirmed?—”
She cut him off, voice tight. “If he’s not confirmed, then he’s not dead. That means something.”
“It does,” Noah said gently. “We’re treating him as a missing person. That’s our focus.”
Mr. Strudwell came into view and let out a slow, sharp breath. His fingers interlaced tightly in front of him. “How did the others die?” he asked. “Is it true, was it an animal?”
Noah exchanged a glance with McKenzie. “We’re not ruling anything out. But we’re investigating it as a suspicious death.”
He let that hang. The termhomicidehadn’t been used yet.
“Suspicious?” Mr. Strudwell repeated, narrowing his eyes. “You think they were murdered?”
“We’re looking at all possibilities.”
Mrs. Strudwell’s voice cracked. “But they were just kids.”
McKenzie spoke gently. “We know. That’s why we’re doing everything we can.”
Noah stepped forward. “Did Stephen say anything before the trip? Anything unusual? Anyone he wasn’t comfortable with in the group?”
Mrs. Strudwell shook her head too quickly. “He was excited. Nervous, maybe, but that’s just Stephen. He was always a little... anxious.”
