Page 92 of Silent Bones
“I got a call,” he said.
The words didn’t land like a bomb. They landed like a shovel against old earth. Familiar and heavy.
Noah didn’t move. “From who? Rivera.”
Hugh gave him a look. The kind that said, you already know. After a moment, he said, “Someone I used to know in Albany. Not a politician. Not a cop. Something in between.”
Noah slid into the chair across from him.
“They said you are stirring up things that should stay settled.”
Noah’s jaw tightened. “That what they said? Settled?”
Hugh nodded slowly. “They daid it plain. Said you're bringing attention where it isn't wanted. That people have forgotten what happened at Wallface, and they don't want to be reminded."
“People,” Noah repeated. “You mean the DEC?”
Hugh’s eyes met his now. Clear. Tired. “You think this came from the DEC? It didn’t. It’s far bigger. It’s the kind of call you get when you’ve kicked a rock and a hundred snakes come slithering out from underneath.”
Noah leaned back. The note in his pocket suddenly felt radioactive.
“Luther?”
Hugh shrugged. “He didn’t sign the call.”
“But I would bet the ink was his.”
Silence stretched between them.
Then Hugh leaned forward, elbows on the table, both hands around the bottle like it was something he could squeeze answers from. “I know you think you’re doing the right thing. And maybe you are. But there’s a difference between right and smart. I learned that very fast a long time ago when I worked for the Sheriff’s Office. You want to keep your job? Keep your life? Maybe keep what little is left of our damn name in this town? You’ve got to know when to push and when to walk away, son.”
Noah said nothing.
“You’re not going to walk, are you,” Hugh said, not really asking.
Noah reached into his coat, pulled the folded paper from his pocket, and laid it on the table. He opened it slowly.
Some things are better left alone.
He stared at the words for a long time. Then stood, crossed to the sink, and lit a match off the stove pilot. The paper curled, darkened, and vanished in a hiss of flame and black smoke.
He let it burn to nothing before turning back.
“If they’re trying this hard to keep it buried,” he said, voice low and level, “then I’m right where I need to be.”
Hugh didn’t argue. He just took a long pull from his beer and looked out the kitchen window, as if expecting someone to be there. Watching.
Noah didn’t sit again. He just stood there, staring at the flame-stained sink. The warning was received. But so was the answer.
24
The silence between them had stretched for thirty miles. Noah cut the engine in the DEC headquarters parking lot, watching Callie through his peripheral vision as she stared at the building's concrete facade. She hadn't spoken since they'd left the Sheriff's Office—not during the drive through town, not when they'd turned onto the quiet service road that wound past maintenance barns and snowmobile sheds.
He knew that look. It was the kind of quiet that came with pressure behind it.
The lobby smelled faintly of varnish and cold coffee. A thin man behind the reception desk lifted his chin without smiling as they approached.
“Investigator Sutherland. Deputy Thorne.”
