Page 20 of Silent Bones (High Peaks Murder, Mystery and Crime Thrillers #7)

McKenzie walked over to the mantel, picked up one of the photos. Jesse in football pads, arm thrown around a taller boy, Stephen Strudwell.

“He was close with Stephen, huh?” McKenzie asked.

Mark stiffened. “They all were.”

“Some say they were closer than that.”

The bottle hit the side table with a thud. Mark glared, fists clenched at his sides. “You trying to say my son was, what? Gay? Is that what this is?”

“Calm down. We’re just asking,” Noah said carefully, “if there was tension about it. Between you and Jesse.”

Mark’s voice became low and dangerous. “You know what happens when people die? Every jackass in town becomes a historian. A psychic. A gossip. Jesse was figuring himself out. Like all kids do. And yeah, maybe he and Stephen were close. Doesn’t mean he was gay or that I beat it out of him.”

McKenzie didn’t back down. “Some say he was seen with bruises. Cuts?”

Mark’s eyes flared. “He played football. Worked rebar in the summers. You ever haul steel in 90-degree heat? Of course he had bruises.”

“You ever argue with him about Stephen specifically?”

Mark looked away. His voice dropped. “One time. I caught them drunk. Jesse was acting like a fool, laughing too loud, saying stupid shit. I told him to grow up. Told him Stephen was a bad influence. That’s it.”

“And after that?”

“He told me he was going to move out. Get his own place. Said he wanted space.” Mark turned back to face them. “You want a villain, pick someone else. I was hard on him, yeah. But I’d cut my own arm off before I hurt that boy.”

The room hung on those words. Noah studied him, really studied him.

There was rage there. Shame. Pride. But underneath it, something twisted. Something coiled tight.

“You mind if we look around?” Noah asked.

Mark gave a sharp, tired nod. “Knock yourselves out. Won’t find anything. Except more people telling me how to grieve.”

McKenzie disappeared down the short hallway. Noah stayed seated. Watching.

Mark dropped back into his chair like a man falling into a hole. “I didn’t kill my son,” he said quietly. “But I wasn’t the dad he needed either. I sure as hell wasn’t there to protect him. Maybe that’s enough for people to accuse me.”

Noah didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure what the truth was yet.

But he knew a man drowning when he saw one.

Noah stood slowly, his knees stiff, his patience thinner.

In the hall, McKenzie’s boots thudded against the hardwood as he returned. He gave a slight shake of his head, nothing remarkable found. A cracked picture frame on the dresser, a dusty treadmill in the spare room, a dog crate in the corner.

“You said you were drinking the night Jesse died,” McKenzie said, rejoining them in the living room. “I don’t see many empties. Just that one bottle in your hand.”

Mark didn’t flinch. “Took the rest to the dump Monday. Didn’t realize I needed to keep ’em for exhibit A.”

McKenzie crossed his arms. “You make a habit of cleaning when you’re mourning?”

“I make a habit of not letting my house smell like rot.”

Noah watched Mark’s hands, they hadn’t stopped twitching.

“You ever take drugs?” McKenzie asked. “Meth for instance?”

“Of course. But I don’t do them now.”

“Any idea why your son would’ve gone camping that weekend?” Noah asked.

Mark’s lips curled. “Probably to get away from me. Or maybe to chase ghosts with that podcaster nut.”

“You mean Miles Banning?”

“Yeah. That bald clown with the ham radio and Sasquatch stickers. Jesse thought he was funny. He listened to the podcast. I thought he was pathetic.”

McKenzie reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded photo, the one of Jesse and Stephen near the old campsite, arms draped across each other, smiling into the sun. He placed it gently on the coffee table.

Mark stared. His jaw went tight.

“You recognize where this was taken?” McKenzie asked.

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

Mark leaned in. His voice dropped to a near-growl. “What game are you two playing? You come in here, poke at me like I’m some kind of animal, and for what? So you can cross my name off your list?”

“We’re not crossing anyone off,” Noah said. “Yet.”

Mark’s breath hitched. He stood, pacing to the kitchen, grabbed a glass, filled it with water from the tap. His hands shook slightly as he drank.

Then he turned. And exploded.

“I raised that boy!” he shouted. “Worked every day to keep a roof over his head. Paid for his pads, his braces, his goddamn truck! And you show up here with your theories about him being gay and your photos like I didn’t love him!”

The glass slipped from his hand, shattered on the floor. Water sprayed across the linoleum like blood.

McKenzie tensed, took a half-step forward.

But Mark didn’t advance. He just stood there, chest heaving, hands trembling at his sides.

“I didn’t kill my son,” he whispered. “But I lost him long before that night.”

Noah didn’t speak. He knew the look on Mark’s face, one of rage and barely holding back a flood.

“You ever think,” Mark continued, voice cracking, “maybe he ran into someone else out there? Someone who didn’t care if he was good, or smart, or kind. Someone who saw weakness and decided that was enough?”

“Do you know something we don’t?” McKenzie asked, his tone sharpening.

Mark’s eyes snapped to his. “I know this town. I know what it lets slide. You look away long enough, the things you don’t see grow teeth.”

He turned and opened the front door, letting in the smell of wet grass and gasoline. “You got what you came for. Now get the hell out of my house.”

Neither Noah nor McKenzie moved for a second.

Then Noah stood, gathered the photo from the table, and slipped it into his jacket.

Outside, the wind had picked up. Leaves skittered across the driveway like bones on tile. As they reached the vehicle, McKenzie muttered, “I think he’s hiding something.”

Noah stared through the windshield. “Yeah. Just not sure if it’s a secret, or a wound.”

Behind them, the door slammed.

A neighbor’s screen door squeaked open. An old woman on the porch called out, “You boys here to blame that man for his own son’s death? Leave him alone.”

Neither answered.

They got in. The car pulled away. And the Linwood house sat quiet once more.