Page 88 of Silent Bones
Mack shrugged. “Not my place to say.”
Noah slid the drone photo closer.
“And the murdered teens? What, did one of them stumble upon your meth lab? Did you kill them off?”
Mack leaned forward with venom in his eyes. “Hold on. No fucking way. You are not pinning that on me.”
“You were near the crime scene where four kids died. Your airstream was close to where the fifth was found. You expect me to believe that’s a coincidence?”
“I wasn’t anywhere near there,” Mack said.
“So you have an alibi for that night?” Noah asked.
Silence.
Noah shifted tone. Softer now.
“You said something earlier when we were placing you in the cruiser. ‘I’m not the one who took those kids’ lives.’ That’s not the same as saying you don’t know who did.”
Mack didn’t move. Just flexed his fingers against the cuffs.
“I get a sense you know who did,” Noah said again.
Finally, Mack lifted his head. His voice was steady. “I know what happens to people who open their mouths. That’s all.”
McKenzie stepped back. He knew the look in Mack’s eyes. It wasn’t bravado. It wasn’t loyalty. It was fear.
Not of jail, but of whoever would still be out there once the cell door closed.
The door to the hallway opened behind them. Assistant DA Corinne Myles stepped in and spoke just loud enough.
“That’s enough for today. We’ve got him on the meth charges. Let’s hold him until we finish mapping the Airstream network. No bail.”
Noah stood, the weight in his chest familiar now. The ache of being close, but not close enough.
“Listen, you’ve still got a chance to help yourself,” he said quietly. “Do what is right.”
But Mack didn’t look up again.
When the cuffs clicked off the table and Mack was led out, he didn’t fight. He didn’t ask where they were taking him. He just walked like someone who’d already decided where he was headed.
23
The station had gone still.
Not quiet, Noah could handle quiet. But still. Like the air had thickened, just slightly. Like something had shifted without anyone saying so.
It was almost 11. McKenzie’s cruiser was already gone. Callie had left earlier with a curt goodnight and a file under her arm. The radio played low in the room, some half-crackling blues station that didn’t belong to anyone in particular. All that remained were the desk lights, the hiss of the vending machine compressor, and the quiet tap of Noah’s pen as he finished the report on Mack Hawkins.
He glanced again at the screen. Arresting charge: illegal possession of Schedule II narcotic. Supporting charge: unauthorized trapping on state lands.
He should’ve felt satisfied. They had Mack in custody. Meth on him. The silver Airstream tied to known smuggling routes. But the man wouldn’t say a word. Not a plea. Not a denial. Not a thing. He’d just sat there like he was waiting for someone else to show up at the station and clean up his mess.
But no one came.
Noah leaned back and exhaled through his nose. A dull pressure behind his eyes had started hours ago and settled in like it meant to stay. He clicked off the desk lamp, grabbed his coat, and stepped out through the double doors into the cold night.
The parking lot was nearly empty, just his cruiser and a few scattered civilian vehicles lined up against the wooden fencing. The wind had picked up, rustling through the pine trees on the edge of the property. Overhead, the security light flickered once, then steadied. He walked toward his Bronco, loosening his collar.
