Page 28 of Silent Bones (High Peaks Murder, Mystery and Crime Thrillers #7)

N oah sat at the edge of the dock with a half-drunk cup of coffee cooling in his hand, the sunrise melting orange across the lake like slow oil.

The water was still, except for the occasional ripple from a passing loon and the dip of a fishing line cast from a boat across the bay.

He hadn’t slept fully. Just a few short hours of restless dozing, punctuated by flashes of the teens’ dead faces.

He sipped the coffee. Bitter. Cold.

Beside him, a folder of printed case photos lay in a loose pile, close-up shots from the campsite: claw marks on nylon, slashes in tree bark, tufts of fur caught in the brush.

He picked one up, studied the image. The fur looked convincing under the right lighting, tangled with blood and dew.

But even in the photo, something felt off. Too... placed.

He turned to the next photo: a sapling, snapped low, bark peeled like skin. Another: the tent’s edge, shredded diagonally in deep gouges. And another: a wide shot of the firepit, one of the bodies half-submerged beyond it, like someone had tried to flee but didn’t make it far.

Noah rubbed his eyes. The scene had screamed chaos at first glance, an ambush, a frenzy, but the longer he sat with it, the more composed it seemed. Calculated, even. Almost like someone had wanted it to appear wild.

He thought about Callie, about how she'd looked when she left the other night. She was trying to stay in control, but the cracks were showing.

It was all too much smoke. Too many shadows pretending to be something solid.

Noah set the photos aside and pulled his phone from the pocket of his hoodie. Two new messages.

The first was from McKenzie:

CALL ME WHEN YOU WAKE UP.

The second was from Addie. Come to the lab.

Noah stared at the message for a beat, heart hitching. Addie didn’t do drama. If she said “come,” it wasn’t a maybe.

Noah stood, bones creaking, the lake mist curling around his legs. The rising sun lit the water like a warning flare.

He tossed the cold coffee into the grass, grabbed his coat, and headed out.

The morgue wasn’t buzzing like it usually was. No hum of idle conversation. Just the quiet buzz of overhead fluorescents and the low whir of a ventilator fan somewhere behind the wall. Noah stepped through the swinging double doors with McKenzie a half-step behind him.

The air smelled like bleach, cold steel, and burnt coffee. A single desk lamp lit up the workstation, casting a warm cone over the microscope, evidence bags, and a tray of swab kits.

Addie stood in the middle of it all, sleeves rolled up, dark hair knotted back, goggles perched on her head like a crown. She didn’t look up.

“You’re late,” she said, voice clipped, eyes still locked on the eyepiece. “I’ve been dying to ruin your day.”

Noah gave a dry chuckle and stepped closer. “We figured that was your love language.”

McKenzie set his hands on his hips. “Please tell me it was a bear. Or a cougar. At least then we could put this all behind us.”

Addie raised her head slowly and pushed the goggles up. Her expression was unreadable, the kind she used when she needed them to stop joking and start paying attention.

“Langley’s lab sent their report this morning. Everything I saw in the prelims is now official. It’s a combination of synthetic fibers and costume glue. There is no organic trace. This wasn’t nature. It was theater,” she said, reaching for a bag marked with red tape: SITE 64 – FIBERS SAMPLE.

She pulled out a clear slide and fit it under the microscope camera, flipping the adjacent monitor on. The image that filled the screen looked like a shimmering tapestry. There were threadlike structures under the UV, each strand glowing faint blue.

“No dermal sheath,” she said. “No root, no follicle. Which means no DNA. These aren’t animal hairs. Hell, they’re not hairs at all. It’s good that we got confirmation on that.”

McKenzie squinted. “What are we looking at?”

“Polyester.” She clicked to the next slide. “Synthetic fibers. Costume-grade. Heat-sealed ends. Adhesive residue along the base. Industrial glue. These were planted.”

Noah crossed his arms. “Planted… where?”

She pointed to a chart clipped to the corkboard behind her. “One set embedded in the victim’s sweatshirt collar. One pressed into the ripped tent fabric. Third set scattered along the brush line near the claw marks.”

McKenzie let out a low whistle. “So it was staged.”

Addie nodded. “Meticulously. Whoever did this wanted it to read like an animal attack. And not just any animal. Something large. Unnatural.”

Noah’s eyes drifted to the fur sample under the microscope. “Sasquatch.”

“Bingo,” Addie muttered. “But this isn’t cryptid evidence. It’s craft store sleight of hand.”

McKenzie shook his head. “The DEC guys had us thinking this was some freak bear hybrid. Local press ran with it. The podcaster’s already printed merch.”

Addie turned back to her workstation and pulled up a new screen. “Let me show you the kicker.”

She displayed a set of photos: tent flaps slashed at diagonal angles, gear shredded but strangely spaced. Overlays flickered across a screen showing ruler markings, digital striations, toolmark analysis.

“The claw marks? I ran striation mapping against both known mammalian bite patterns and synthetic tool profiles. The spacing’s too clean. Uniform down to the millimeter.”

Noah stepped closer. “Metal?”

“Exactly. These weren’t made by paws or claws. They were carved with something like a roofing hook or landscaping tool.”

She clicked to another set of overlays, layering them with photos from actual bear attack cases. The contrast was stark. The real attacks were chaotic, jagged, and messy. This was choreography.

McKenzie muttered, “This isn’t a crime scene. It’s a set piece.”

Addie glanced back, eyes tired. “Someone storyboarded this.”

A silence settled over the room like dust. Noah shifted his weight, throat dry.

“We’ve been chasing shadows,” he said finally. “Chasing a myth.”

Addie nodded once. “That’s what they wanted. Keep everyone looking elsewhere while the truth sat right here under our nose.”

Noah exhaled sharply, jaw clenched. “Langley called it before he tested.”

Addie pulled off her gloves and tossed them into the bin. “I’ve already looped Rishi in. He’s compiling a list of theatrical and prop supply companies within a 200-mile radius. Places that sell fur fabric, adhesives, costume tools, anything with a production or SFX application.”

McKenzie ran a hand through his hair. “So our perp’s not just smart. He’s patient. And twisted.”

“He didn’t just want to kill them,” Noah said. “He wanted to shape the story. Control how the news spread. Buy himself some time. Push the town into panic mode.”

McKenzie gave a sharp nod. “Which worked. You seen the message boards? Half the county’s convinced we’ve got a cryptid on the loose. It feeds into the lore of this area.”

Noah grunted. “All because some guy walked into a Michaels, bought fur and glue, and staged a horror show.”

“Not just glue and fur,” Addie added, more gently now. “Tools. Planning. Time. He didn’t panic and lash out. He plotted.”

She hesitated, then tapped another file open. “There is one… potential caveat.”

Noah raised a brow. “Let’s hear it.”

“I ran the fiber samples against every known synthetic on file, FBI, CDC, even old DHS records. Everything says it’s commercially available…

but one of the glues used on the tent sample?

It’s odd. Industrial-grade epoxy, not sold in hardware stores.

Usually used in… prosthetics or certain military field kits. ”

McKenzie straightened. “That narrows the suspect pool.”

“Maybe. I’m flagging it for a deeper chem run, but there’s a possibility this person had access to restricted-use materials.”

A beat passed.

“You’re saying we might be dealing with someone who used to work in defense?” Noah asked.

“Or wilderness training. Or even the film industry,” Addie replied. “I’m not leaping to conclusions, but I wouldn’t call this amateur hour.”

Noah chewed it over.

McKenzie broke the silence. “So where does that leave us?”

Noah folded her arms. “Next step is connecting the materials to a buyer. If Rishi’s scraping supplier databases and regional purchase orders, you’ll want to look into anyone local with wilderness access and theater or SFX experience.”

Noah’s gaze lingered on the image of the synthetic fibers. “This changes the direction of the case.”

Addie nodded. “It should.”

He looked to McKenzie. “Time to hunt the puppeteer.”

McKenzie’s face hardened and gave a nod.

And with that, the illusion began to unravel.