Page 34 of Silent Bones (High Peaks Murder, Mystery and Crime Thrillers #7)

Earlier

I t was too quiet on the lake.

The kind of quiet that wasn’t peaceful but hollow, like the world had pressed mute and forgotten to unpause.

Avery Calder stood barefoot in the kitchen, one hand wrapped around a glass of water, the other stroking the silky head of her father’s retriever, Dusty.

He leaned into her leg, warm and dopey, sensing nothing of the unease settling over the house like fog.

The sun had slipped behind the pines an hour ago, and now the last shades of dusk were sliding into gray.

She hadn’t meant to stay home alone this evening.

Her father had driven out to Ray Brook for a late meeting, something DEC-related, though she suspected it was more about shielding her from the fallout of the murders.

Ever since the police came to the DEC and the whole thing with Stephen exploded, her father had been acting like someone with too many spinning plates.

Talking in half-sentences. Grunting more than answering.

Watching her too closely when she said she was “fine.”

She looked out the window. The police cruiser was still there.

She'd asked why they needed to be there, and her father had said it was for her safety.

Safe? She didn't feel safe at all. If anything, she felt like a prisoner in her own home, watching the world through glass while a uniformed stranger kept vigil outside.

Avery sighed and set the glass on the counter. She reached for her phone. Still no reply from a friend. Just a read receipt from hours ago and that quiet, digital stillness that always made her feel lonelier than no message at all.

Her thumb hovered over the last text she’d sent: “Any word on the murders?”

Nothing.

She tapped the screen off and tucked the phone into her hoodie pocket. The dog bumped his nose against her shin, and she smiled despite herself. “Okay, okay. Dinner time.”

The kibble clattered into the bowl with a sharp rhythm, a sound far too loud in the hush of the cabin.

She reached for the fridge to grab a leftover sausage, but as she pulled the door open, something knocked against the milk carton.

It teetered, fell, and burst across the floor in a slick white arc.

“Shit.”

Dusty trotted over, tongue out, sniffing like this was the best accident in the world. Avery grabbed a dish towel from the oven handle and crouched down to mop up the mess, but the silence made her pause.

There was a hum.

Not the fridge or the ceiling fan, something farther out. She tilted her head.

The boat shed.

She stood slowly, wiping her hands, stepping over the spill. Through the back window, barely visible between the blinds, a soft glow flickered behind the shed’s warped panels. A motion light, maybe? She didn’t remember turning it on. Her father kept that place locked unless he was tinkering.

The unease was a whisper now, curling up her spine.

She moved to the back door and pressed on the lock to double-check. Still latched. She tried the handle. It was solid. Deadbolt slid in place.

You’re just being paranoid.

Avery turned back to the living room. The glass of water was sweating onto the counter. Dusty had finished his food and was already curling up on the rug, unbothered. She stared at the window again. The cruiser was still there.

It’s nothing.

She said it aloud to silence her mind. Then she moved to the front door and twisted the deadbolt there, too, for good measure. Her hand lingered on the knob a beat too long.

Somewhere outside, a twig snapped.

Her head jerked toward the sound.

Nothing moved.

Not the wind. Not the trees.

Just the lake, swallowing the night.

Dusty got up and approached the rear door. He scratched at it.

“All right.”

Against her better judgement, Avery opened the back door. What had been heavy with warmth now felt hollow, like someone had pulled the heat out of the wind. Dusty darted out ahead of her, nails skittering across the porch boards as he bounded down the steps toward the side yard.

“Hey, stay close!” she called, but he didn’t pause.

The lake whispered in the distance, small waves kissing the rocks, a loon calling far off, but beneath it was another sound.

Boots.

In water.

She stepped to the edge of the porch, hand braced on the railing. Her eyes flicked toward the boat shed. The light was still on.

Then… clink.

The soft sound of metal against wood. The dock shifting.

Her breath caught. No boats were supposed to be out. Not at this hour. Not theirs.

“Dad?” she tried, the word coming out weak. Pointless.

Wind chimes rattled on the front porch, sharp and sudden. She flinched. They weren’t moving earlier. There wasn’t enough wind.

Why are they moving now?

She turned to call Dusty again.

And that’s when something slammed into her from behind.

A gloved hand over her mouth. The stink of something sharp and artificial, chemical, cloying, burned her nose and throat. She tried to scream for the cop but couldn’t inhale.

Her body jerked, twisted, kicked. Her heel connected with something hard.

A grunt.

Then a second impact, her shoulder cracking into the porch post.

Dusty barked from the dark, a deep, guttural sound she’d never heard from him before. Snarling. Charging.

“Go!” she wanted to scream, but the hand held firm.

The attacker pivoted.

A thud.

A yelp.

The sound of claws scrabbling on wood, and then Dusty was silent.

“No,” her mind screamed. “Please no?—”

Her legs kept kicking. One shoe slipped off. Her free arm scratched at the gloved hand. Her nails dug into fabric, then skin.

And then?—

A blast of dizziness.

The world began to blur.

She felt a breath that wasn’t hers. It was harsh, panting, close.

She felt cold wood against her back. Leaves sticking to her legs. A jostling motion, like being dragged sideways.

Darkness crept in from the edges.

Her fingers scraped something rough.

Woodgrain.

She felt it, a floorboard.

Then, click, her locket popped open against her throat.

The photo inside, she knew it was the one of her and her dad fishing on the Saranac when she was ten. She’d meant to replace it with something more grown-up. She never did.

Her last thought, as the edges of the world collapsed inward, was strange: I hope someone finds Dusty.

And then everything went dark.

The dog wouldn’t shut up.

It had been going on for a few minutes now, sharp, angry bursts slicing through the otherwise peaceful evening on Pine Haven Road. Mrs. Eleanor Stanwick lowered the tattered Reader’s Digest in her lap and peered through the screen door of her porch.

Dusty?

The Calder girl’s retriever mix was out again, pawing at the grass and growling in the direction of the woods. His leash was still clipped to his collar, dragging like a forgotten ribbon.

She frowned. That wasn’t like him.

The last time he got out, he’d just paced the yard whining until someone noticed. But this, this was different. Hackles raised. Bark pitched with panic.

She stepped out onto the porch in her orthopedic sandals and squinted at the Calder house. The back door was wide open.

“Damn wind,” she muttered.

Eleanor shuffled across her lawn, the grass still holding onto the sun’s warmth, Dusty darting a few steps ahead then circling back toward her. Barking again. Toward the trees this time.

“Shh, Dusty, shh. You’re gonna wake up half the lake.”

The dog ignored her.

She reached the porch steps and froze.

There was broken glass inside. A puddle of milk creeping across the kitchen floor.

“Hello?” Eleanor called, rapping gently on the open door. “Avery, honey? You home?”

No answer.

Her eyes flicked around, nothing looked wrecked, but it didn’t look right either. The fridge door was open an inch. A glass lay in shards near the table leg. A single Converse sneaker sat sideways by the back mat.

She needed to get help. Eleanor hurried around to the front of the house where the police cruiser sat silent in the driveway.

But the deputy wasn't inside the vehicle.

She found him crumpled on the asphalt beside the open driver's door, his uniform dark with blood.

A hunting knife protruded from his neck at an obscene angle, its handle glinting dully in the light.

Eleanor pressed a trembling hand to her chest. Something clawed at her gut.

She turned and hurried back across the lawn, pulling her phone from her sweater pocket as she went. Her fingers shook as she tapped 9-1-1.

“State your emergency,” came the operator’s voice.

“This is Eleanor Stanwick,” she said, panting now, not from exertion but from fear. “A deputy is dead. I repeat, a deputy is dead, and I think something’s terribly wrong at the Calder residence. Their dog is loose. Back door’s open. Nobody answering.”

“Address, ma’am?”

“Four-seven-two Pine Haven Road.”

There was a pause.

Then the voice returned sharper. “You said the property belongs to someone by the name of Calder. Do you have a first name?”

“Yes. William.”

Another pause.

“We’re dispatching a unit now. Stay put. Do not enter the home again, ma’am.”

Eleanor glanced back.

Dusty was still barking, now at the edge of the woods. The last light of evening was almost gone, shadows pooling beneath the trees like something living.

She didn’t know what she’d walked into. But she knew one thing with certainty.

The Calder girl was gone.

Red and blue lights pulsed across the trees like a slow, unspoken alarm. By the time Noah pulled onto Pine Haven Road, the street was crawling with cruisers. Uniforms clustered by the driveway. The back porch was already cordoned off with yellow tape.

He parked behind a cruiser and stepped out into air that had gone suddenly cold. Callie headed into the hoe while Noah went over and looked at the deputy who had been ambushed and murdered.

“Son of a bitch.”

He watched as EMTs loaded him into a body bag.

Noah rose and sighed, running a hand over his head. He made his way into the house.