Page 33 of Silent Bones (High Peaks Murder, Mystery and Crime Thrillers #7)

M ultiple unread messages stared back, bright against the black screen, as if demanding an answer no one could give. Noah scrolled through his messages as the cruiser idled outside the Pines Edge Motel. His last text to Logan had been three days ago.

He had received no response.

The transcript from Logan’s motel interview was open on his lap. The kid had been nervous, evasive, but something in the final exchange stuck with him.

“It wasn’t just noise in the woods. It was the way they ran. Like they saw something. Like they knew.”

Noah didn’t know what the teens might have seen before they died. But he was starting to think Logan did. And now Logan was silent.

A knock on the window startled him. McKenzie, sunglasses on, a half-empty coffee in his hand. “You ready?”

He nodded and stepped out. The sun had baked the motel lot into something brittle and stale. Pines Edge was the kind of place people didn’t talk about staying at.

A sign flickered the word “VACANCY”. Room 6 was already cordoned off. Two uniformed officers kept the perimeter clear while a coroner tech loaded gear from the van.

“Our cop was posted outside, and the guy from the front desk said Logan only exited the room to have a smoke,” McKenzie said. “No one else showed up at his door.”

“And now he’s dead,” Noah murmured, glancing toward the second-story walkway where the door stood open and a camera flashed inside.

Callie hung back, visibly shaken. “He was a mess,” she whispered. “But he didn’t want to die. He wanted to disappear, not vanish.”

Inside, the room reeked of mildew and stale cigarette smoke.

Logan’s body had already been cut down, laid out beneath a stained white sheet, his pale toes peeking from the bottom.

A folding chair was knocked over near the closet rail, a belt still cinched to the rod. The scene was textbook, too textbook.

Noah crouched beside the tech bag as the coroner, Ozzy, adjusted gloves. “Neck’s distended. Ligature furrow is deep but uneven. Could be self-applied,” he said, but his tone lacked conviction.

“Any signs of struggle?” Noah asked.

He hesitated. “Small abrasions under the nails. No skin samples yet. Also, odd bruising on his lower back. Shallow, like someone grabbed and held him from behind.”

Noah nodded. “Get a tox screen from Addie. Full panel. And a fingernail kit.”

Ozzy gave a quick nod and got to work.

Noah stood and looked around the room. It wasn’t messy. If it wasn’t a real suicide it was… staged. Logan’s backpack rested on the chair. Zipper shut. Phone charging, still at 82%. Wallet on the desk. No suicide note.

Noah pulled on gloves and carefully opened the pack.

Inside were socks, a protein bar, a half-empty bottle of ibuprofen, and, folded neatly at the bottom, a sketchpad.

He flipped it open. Inside were page after page of loose drawings; trees, firepits, what looked like a shoreline with tents.

Then, near the back, a rough rendering of a silver trailer with scribbled words in the corner:

“Don’t trust Mack.”

And beneath that, a smear. Like the pencil had been smudged in haste. Or panic.

Noah closed the pad.

This wasn’t suicide.

It was cleanup.

When McKenzie returned, he paused in the doorway. “You think this is connected to Miles?”

“I think it’s connected to everything.” He held up the notebook. “Logan knew something. Probably more than he let on in that interview. He said, don’ trust Mack.”

“You’re saying Mack did this?”

Noah stared at the sketch, then at Logan’s body, swaying ever so slightly from the draft under the door.

“I’m saying someone wanted him quiet. And Mack knew how to follow orders.”

“Geesh,” Callie whispered behind him.

McKenzie got closer. “With all that’s happened, my opinion is this wasn’t a suicide. It was a silencing.”

Noah nodded. “Seems that way.”

McKenzie exhaled, eyes narrowing toward the door. “Then we’ve got a killer who’s tying up loose ends.”

“Which means a list is real,” Noah said. “And it’s getting shorter.”

He walked to a rear window that was cracked open and looked out toward the lake. The water rippled under the last light of day, indifferent. Somewhere across that surface, someone was watching, maybe not now, maybe not here, but always near.

“Get prints,” he said to Ozzy. “And have the room swept for fiber or fur traces. Anything you can find. My guess is whoever did this entered through the rear window.”

Callie stepped beside him. “Do you think Logan had ties to Wallface?”

“Anything is possible. But I think this ties to whoever needs Wallface or the meth business to stay buried. And if Logan knew something…”

“Then someone made sure he wouldn’t say it.”

He lifted a ziplock evidence bag. “Someone made sure Logan wouldn’t speak.”

Called nodded, then quietly said, “Or they think he already did. You think it was Mack?”

Noah looked at her. “Unless Logan died when Mack was out of custody? Any idea when he died, Oz?”

“Ballpark, around 30 hours ago.”

He took a breath, steadying. The kind of breath you take when you realize the walls you’ve been pushing against aren’t the walls holding the real threat.

Callie leaned in, her face unreadable. “Are we connecting this to the Strudwell case?”

“I’m connecting it to whatever the hell Logan saw,” Noah replied. “Because he ran from that site like something had teeth. And now he’s strung up in a motel room.”

Called crossed her arms. “What was in the notebook?”

Noah opened it again and passed it over. “This.” He tapped the page with the sketch of the Airstream trailer. “Silver trailer. Matches the one parked near Middle Saranac. Same one Mack supposedly used as a mobile base.”

McKenzie leaned in. “But Mack’s been cooperative since his arrest. Lawyered up, sure, but calm. Almost like he knows someone else is holding the bag now.”

Noah’s jaw tightened. “Or like he was told to stay calm.”

Savannah raised the sketch. “Don’t trust Mack,” she read aloud. “But that’s just the tip. Someone else is pulling strings.”

“Exactly,” Noah said. “And if Logan knew it, Miles probably did too.”

Noah raised an eyebrow. “McKenzie, is the phone gone?”

“No. It’s on the nightstand. We checked it. I had to pry his eyelid open. It was wiped. Factory reset. No texts, no call log, no photos,” McKenzie said.

“Let’s seal the room,” Noah said. “And McKenzie?”

“Yeah?”

“Have Rishi contact the cell company and get every call Logan made or received in the last three days. Also see if he can work his magic on that phone. I want to know if he reached anyone. Especially Mack. Or Luther Ashford.”

“You really think Ashford would be that sloppy?”

“No, but panic can drive people to make mistakes.”

McKenzie nodded and stepped out to make the call.

They left the room in silence. McKenzie stayed at the motel to coordinate. Noah and Callie descended the metal stairs, the motel sign flickering overhead like a faulty warning.

The motel parking lot buzzed with static from radios and idle curiosity from a few locals peering from across the street.

In the vehicle, Noah sat with the engine off, hands still gripping the wheel.

He glanced once more at the motel door as it closed behind the techs, the lock clicking like a final nail.

Somewhere inside, Logan’s drawings were being bagged and tagged.

Somewhere inside, the story was already being rewritten by someone else.

But not this time.

This time, Noah would follow the roots until they broke the surface.

Even if it meant cutting down the whole damn forest.

He tapped the side of his phone, staring down the contact list.

Hawkins. Voss. Forrester.

Callie’s radio crackled to life on her belt. A voice came over. “We just got a 10-13 out near Pine Haven Road. Officer down. Report of a residential break-in, signs of struggle.”

She keyed the mic. “Who’s the registered owner?”

There was a pause. “William Calder.”

Noah was already moving. “We’re on it.”