Page 61 of Silent Bones
She stood in the middle of the apartment like something had been surgically removed from her chest. Her breathing was shallow. Her fingers twitched at her sides.
She didn’t cry.
She didn’t yell.
She just stood there, letting the stillness settle.
But it wasn’t peace. It was shame. Frustration. The bitter taste of not being chosen, even though, deep down, she knew Jake wasn’t wrong.
She walked to the window again and stared out across the wet street, watching the reflections of taillights streak across the pavement. Her own reflection stared back at her in the glass. Her mouth was tight, eyes darker than usual.
“Noah and I… that’s nothing,” she said again to no one, and even she didn’t believe it.
Anger bloomed in her throat, but it wasn’t directed at Jake. Not really. It was aimed inward. At the mess she’d made. At the walls she couldn’t seem to climb over. At the stupid kiss she’d imagined more than once and never dared to act on. At Noah’scalm eyes and quiet concern. At the way she sometimes felt seen around him in ways that scared her.
She grabbed her keys from the hook by the fridge, yanked on her jacket, and slammed the door behind her.
She didn’t know where she was going.
But her hands were already turning a wheel toward High Peaks Lake.
Noah stoodat his kitchen counter, sleeves pushed to the elbows, crime scene photos and reports spread across the surface. A notepad sat open beside his tea, filled with scribbled observations and arrows connecting theories that didn’t quite land.
Outside, the sky had turned a smudged gray-blue. A soft rain had begun tapping at the windows, not a downpour, just enough to remind him that night was coming in heavy.
He was reaching for a folder when someone knocked. Not a polite tap either, a fast, sharp knock that saidnow.
He paused, frowning. A second knock followed, louder this time.
He walked to the door and opened it.
Callie was standing on his porch, damp hair clinging to her jaw, eyes lit with something wild and unfiltered. She didn’t wait for him to say anything. She pushed past him into the house like she had every right to be there.
“You said something in your report,” she said. “About the meth bag.”
Noah closed the door slowly. “Okay…”
“You said it wasn’t weathered. That it looked fresh. Plastic wasn’t degraded.”
He nodded. “Correct.”
“So someone,” she said, spinning to face him, “before or after the murders, planted it or dropped it.”
He took a breath. “That's what I think, yeah.”
She looked around like she was searching for something to throw or break but settled on pacing a tight circle in his kitchen.
“I’m confused. You drove here to say that?” he asked, eyebrows raised.
Callie didn’t answer right away. She pressed the heel of her palm into her forehead and exhaled like it hurt.
“I just needed to say it out loud.”
Noah nodded slowly. “Okay.”
“I also needed to get out of my apartment,” she added.
He leaned against the counter, watching her carefully. “What happened?”
