Page 13 of Silent Bones (High Peaks Murder, Mystery and Crime Thrillers #7)

N oah had kept it simple, just like he always did when he wasn’t sure if he was showing up as a man on a date, or a cop chasing a lead.

The food was packed in a vintage wicker picnic basket he’d found in his sister’s attic the year before, cleaned up, and decided never to return.

Inside were two chilled bottles of beer, a couple of sandwiches he’d overthought the layering of, and a container of couscous salad he’d pretended not to care about when the recipe called for fresh mint.

He tossed in a couple of lemon bars too, because she once mentioned she liked them.

No suit. No jacket. Just jeans and a dark button-up with the sleeves rolled once.

He glanced at himself in the hallway mirror before leaving.

He saw the gray in his temples, the tiredness in his eyes.

Still, not bad for someone who once made front-page news for getting himself suspended.

How could he forget that? That night had begun with Natalie Ashford and ended with someone snapping a photo of him passed out drunk, shirt half-open, a bottle of Buffalo Trace cradled in his arm like a baby.

The image had made its way to the wrong inbox.

Noah had always believed she didn’t have anything to do with it, that it was a coincidence, a wrong moment at the wrong time.

But it had gotten him pulled from the Catcher case all the same, and for months afterward, he’d questioned if any of what she’d said had ever been true.

Still, something about her made him come back.

Maybe it was her mystery. Maybe it was the contrast between her and her father.

Or maybe it was just the way she looked at him sometimes, as if she saw all the broken pieces and liked them better that way.

He liked to think it was the sex. A mutually beneficial agreement.

He grabbed the wicker basket, then made his way across the gravel path toward Ed Baxter’s place next door.

Their little lakefront strip—two lots at the far end of the road—was quiet, tucked behind a row of tall pines and thick underbrush that muffled most sound from the main road.

Noah’s modular home sat elevated on a sloped grade above the water.

Ed’s place, a log-sided A-frame, sat a little closer to the shoreline.

The properties had a shared dock. Both had become sanctuaries for two men trying, in their own way, to escape something.

It had become a routine, checking in with one another. A quick knock. A wave. Nothing formal, just enough to make sure the other was still breathing. And more importantly, that if something ever went wrong out here, someone would know where the other had gone.

Noah slowed when he reached Ed’s porch.

A second truck sat parked outside, engine still ticking from recent use. It was new, an F-150. White with an extended cab.

Noah frowned and mounted the steps. He knocked once, then twice, before letting himself in.

“Ed? Hey, buddy.”

No answer.

He heard it then, laughter. Not Ed’s wheezy chuckle, but a deeper, more manic cackle echoing from the back of the cabin.

Noah strolled inside and followed the sound toward slightly cracked French doors that led to Ed’s converted den.

The room beyond glowed with a strange blue light and what looked like a cheap studio setup.

He pulled the door wide to be greeted by quite the sight.

Microphones. Tripods. Acoustic foam stuck to the walls.

And front and center, two chairs with a printed vinyl banner behind them that read: Gone Squatchin’ .

In the middle of it all, a giant cartoonish silhouette of a Bigfoot, mid-stride.

Noah’s eyes went to the man in one of the chairs.

Headphones on. Round, flushed face. Bald dome.

“You?”

The man blinked, then broke into a grin. “Well, if it isn’t Officer Friendly. Didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”

Ed, standing by the makeshift bar, turned. “You two know each other?”

“We… crossed paths,” Noah muttered.

“Out in the field,” the man added helpfully, pulling the headphones down around his neck.

“Miles Banning. Podcaster. Cryptid enthusiast. Right?”

“So you do know him,” Ed added.

“Unfortunately,” Noah replied.

“We were just recording a new episode.”

“You should’ve warned me,” Noah said to Ed. “I wouldn’t have come over.”

“I didn’t know you were coming,” Ed said with a shrug. “You need something?”

“Just heading out. Thought I’d check in.”

“Oh, shoot, you can’t stay?” Miles asked. He leaned forward, tapping the mic. “We’re live. And I know our listeners would love to hear directly from the man who saw the site. You were there, right? The Saranac Slayings? What did it look like? Gory? Grisly? Anything… unnatural?”

Noah gave him a look. “I’m not doing this.”

“Censorship,” Miles said, spinning toward the mic. “You heard it here first, folks. The cover-up is real. Remember that. They don’t want you to know what’s out there. But we’re here. And we’ll find the truth.”

Ed rolled his eyes. “Take a break, would you?”

Miles grinned. “We’ll be back in five. Just off to knock a few trees. Don’t go anywhere.” He hit the mute button on his setup.

He followed Noah and Ed out to the main living space, still glowing faintly with the light from the monitors behind them.

“Going somewhere nice?” Ed asked.

“Dinner,” Noah said. “With Natalie Ashford.”

Miles perked up. “Ashford? As in the daughter of Luther Ashford? That sexy little thing from the Adirondack Daily Enterprise ?”

Ed chuckled. “The one and only.”

Noah didn’t answer.

Miles kept going. “She’s got a look, that one. Dangerous and expensive. You sure she’s not part of all this?”

Noah stared at him. “I’m heading out.”

“Well, before you go, are you coming to Whitehall?”

Noah paused. “What?”

“The Whitehall Sasquatch Festival. Happens every year. Ed here’s entering the Sasquatch Calling Contest again. Defending champ. You can’t miss that.”

“I’ll pass.”

“Pity. You might want to bring that fur you found. Word is, it’s being tested?”

Noah blinked. “How did you hear about that?”

“Word travels. Am I right?”

“It’s in process,” Noah said stiffly.

“Process?” He laughed. “Which means it will be sitting in a lab for months. Well, Dr. Albert Langley will be at the festival. He’s the guy to talk to, a cryptid researcher, folklore expert. He’s tested all kinds of stuff. Fur. Prints. Stool samples. The works. He’d have that tested in no time.”

Noah took a slow breath. “First, the slayings weren’t Bigfoot-related. Second, don’t spread that nonsense.”

“So what, you expect us to believe it was another animal?” Miles asked.

“Possibly a bear.”

“Were they beaten or eaten?”

“What?”

“The teens. As Sasquatch doesn’t eat. But he has torn apart a few people and twisted heads.”

Noah didn’t answer. He just stepped toward the door.

“Thanks for the chat,” Miles called after him. “Maybe next time you’ll come with a sample. Or a better lie.”

Noah heard Ed mutter something to the effect of, “Seriously? He’s my neighbor.”

Noah pulled the Bronco into the gravel turnout just above the dock, tires crunching softly in the warm hush of night.

A few porch lights dotted the shoreline across the lake, flickering reflections on the still water like scattered candles.

Stars glimmered overhead, undisturbed by clouds or city haze.

She was already there.

Natalie Ashford leaned against the side of her jet-black Aston Martin DB12; one heel propped up behind her on the rear tire. The car glinted under the dim dock light, sleek and predatory. So did she.

Though something was different.

Gone were the ripped jeans and Vans. Tonight, she wore a black silk dress with a slit up one side and thin straps that showed off her shoulders.

Her long dark hair had been swept into a loose twist, a few strands falling to frame her face.

Diamond studs sparkled on her ears, and her makeup was minimal but striking.

It gave her cheekbones the kind of edge that could cut glass.

When she saw him, her lips curled slightly. “When you said here,” she said, glancing around the secluded cove, “I thought you meant a new restaurant.”

Noah held up the wicker basket in one hand and two bottles of beer in the other. “I brought the restaurant with me.”

“I feel overdressed.”

“I was about to say, that’s different from how you normally dress.”

Her smile faltered just a little. “My father has…” she trailed off, eyes slipping to the lake. She didn’t have to finish.

Noah knew what she was about to say. In Luther’s world, appearances mattered.

He gestured toward the dock. “Shall we?”

The canoe bobbed gently at the end of the wooden planks. Natalie stepped out of her heels, held them in one hand, and padded barefoot down the dock. She moved with elegance, like someone who’d been raised under constant scrutiny.

Noah steadied the canoe with a foot and a hand as she climbed in, then shoved off with a quiet grunt and stepped in after her. The boat rocked slightly, and then settled into the rhythm of the water. He took the paddle and began to steer them out into the lake.

The further they got from shore, the quieter it became. Just the occasional lap of water and the rhythmic dip of the paddle.

“How’s the newspaper business doing?” he asked after a few strokes. “Now that Maggie’s gone.”

Natalie leaned back, her legs folded to one side, watching the stars.

“I’m not sure. I set it up with a new managing editor and some interns.

That was my job. I never intended to be the one running the show.

The place runs itself, more or less. I’m supposed to check in monthly but haven’t made it out there in a while. ”

“You seen Carl McNeal?”

“No. You?”

“Not since my last run-in.”

He looked at her sideways. “Your father likes to think he controls everything, but you…”

“Walk to the beat of my own drum,” she finished for him, then gave a short laugh.

“Exactly.”

They reached the lake’s center. Noah rested the paddle inside the canoe and opened the basket. A few small containers, a thermos, some sandwiches, and a pair of reusable glasses that clinked faintly together. The smell of roasted garlic and rosemary drifted up.

He handed her a beer and nodded toward the far shore, the treeline softly silhouetted in the moonlight. “You see that house over there? The one on the corner with the big pines?”

She followed his gaze. “Yeah.”

“That was my childhood home.”

She looked back at him. “The one your father sold?”

“I tried to stop him, but he was done with it. Didn’t even tell me who bought it.”

“Were you close with your mother?”

“She passed before I turned eighteen. Brain aneurysm. One minute she was there, the next… gone.” He exhaled through his nose. “My father blamed me. Or maybe not directly, but… it changed him. Changed us.”

Natalie rested her arm along the edge of the canoe, studying him. “Is that why you left High Peaks?”

He nodded. “Part of it.”

“And you came back because of your brother.”

It wasn’t a question.

“You’ve been digging,” he said, half a smile forming.

“I’ve done my research. Had to. You’re a bit of a closed book, Noah Sutherland.”

He gave a low chuckle. “As are you.”

She tilted her head. “How so?”

He watched her carefully. “How much do you really know about your father’s business activities?”

Something shifted in her face. Not surprise, just that slight tightening around the mouth, the evasive flick of the eyes. Noah had seen it before. In suspects. In survivors. In people who knew more than they wanted to admit.

“I thought we were out here to have dinner,” she said, voice cooler now, “not talk about my father.”

“We are. I just…”

“I like you, Noah. I really do. I like what we have going. But I don’t like feeling like I’m being used to extract information every time we get together. My father is off-limits.”

“And mine’s not?”

“I’ve told you why.” She turned her head away, toward the shoreline in the distance. “Look, maybe you should take me back.”

Noah shifted uncomfortably. “But we still have the food, and—” He caught the flash of frustration on her face and held up a hand. “Sorry. That was out of line. You’re right. Can we start again?”

She didn’t speak for a beat. Then she nodded once.

He reached back into the basket and pulled out a container. “Roast chicken sandwiches. From Darcy’s place in town. And some kind of fancy couscous I don’t know how to pronounce.”

Her lips twitched. “You’re not going to try to make me eat on one of those floating snack boards, are you?”

“Only if you insist.”

They shared a small laugh, the tension breaking just slightly.

But as they ate, Noah knew the wall had gone up again.

Whatever progress they’d made over the past few weeks, if it could be called that, was fragile.

Since the incident months ago when someone had taken that damning photo of him passed out on her driveway, she’d become more guarded.

Less open. Letting him in only in carefully curated pieces.

Mostly her bedroom.

In there, the relationship was undefined, somewhere between curiosity and comfort. Friends with benefits. Sometimes more. Sometimes less. But the line between affection and suspicion was never far behind.

And as much as he told himself to back off, to enjoy the night and the stars and the strange peace of the lake, Noah Sutherland wasn’t built for pretending. Not when there were still too many questions. Not when the woman across from him knew more than she was saying.

Not when every instinct told him that Luther Ashford still had his hooks in everything.

Including her.