Page 56 of Silent Bones
Noah didn’t answer for a long moment.
“If he is,” he said finally, “he knows we’re chasing our tail.”
Behind them, the silver shell of the Airstream caught the first drops of rain.
The wind pushedagainst Noah’s jacket as he stepped out of the Bronco, the screen door of the Linwood house already rattling in its frame like it wanted to flee. The place looked like it hadn’t been touched in years. It had half-painted siding, an old John Deere mower rusted under a torn tarp, and a porch saggingunder the weight of tools, along with firewood, and a broken bird feeder. One shutter dangled sideways above the front window like it had lost the will to stand straight. The kind of place where grief didn’t just settle, it soaked in.
McKenzie parked behind him, engine still running, and stepped out with a low grunt. “Charming,” he muttered, brushing rain off his shoulder. They noted a cross on the door. “Think he’s the type to answer the door with a shotgun, or a sermon?”
Noah didn’t answer. He adjusted the strap on his shoulder holster and made his way up the stairs, every step creaking like a warning. From inside, the muffled static of a news broadcast buzzed under the hum of a window unit. Then a bark, loud and aggressive came from the other side.
“Get in your crate!” Someone bellowed.
A moment later, the door cracked open.
Mark Linwood stood in the frame; eyes sunken. He looked like he hadn’t slept since Jesse died. His gray T-shirt was stained at the collar. He had bruised knuckles on his right hand. His gaze slid past Noah to McKenzie.
“I’m…”
“I know who you are. You gonna keep standing there like Girl Scouts, or you want to come in and piss me off properly?”
Noah offered a neutral nod. “Appreciate your time, Mr. Linwood.”
“I didn’t say you were welcome,” he muttered, pushing the door wider and stepping back.
The inside smelled of beer, sweat, and Pine-Sol, like someone had made a half-assed attempt at pretending they cared. The living room was small and dark, windows half-covered with old drapes. A TV blared low from the corner, tuned to local news looping footage of the Saranac crime scene.
Family photos lined the mantel. Jesse, age five, holding a trout. Jesse in football pads. Jesse with a black eye, smiling next to Mark on a hunting trip. One frame was shattered, the glass missing. Someone had turned another face-down on the shelf.
Mark dropped into a frayed recliner and pointed toward the couch. “Sit if you have to. Don’t expect coffee.”
McKenzie stayed standing. “We won’t be long.”
“Lotta people saying that lately.” He picked up a bottle from the side table. cheap whiskey, half full. He didn’t drink it, he just cradled it like it gave him permission to be hostile.
Noah leaned forward, arms on his knees. “We’re sorry about your son. We’re just trying to understand what happened.”
Mark scoffed. “Yeah? Well, you should be poking around in his friends’ lives not mine. ”
“We’re not making assumptions,” Noah said. “But you knew Jesse. You knew his circle.”
“I knew my son,” Mark snapped. “And whatever the hell you’re fishing for, you better bring better bait.”
The silence between them was thick. Heavy with things unsaid.
And the worst of it? Noah wasn’t sure if they were talking to a grieving father, or someone else entirely.
“Where were you the night Jesse was killed?” McKenzie asked.
Mark’s jaw worked like he was chewing glass. “Home. Here. Drinking. Ask my dog.”
“You live alone?”
“Ever since Jesse moved out, yeah. His mother took off before he could walk, so if you’re looking for someone else to cross-examine, you’ll have to dig her up.”
McKenzie didn’t blink. “Anyone talk to you that night? Call you? Text?”
Mark waved the whiskey bottle like it might ward off questions. “Didn’t answer. Didn’t want to. Didn’t think I’d wake up to half the town thinking I’m some kind of goddamn monster.”
