Page 9 of Silent Bones (High Peaks Murder, Mystery and Crime Thrillers #7)

“I’m telling you,” McKenzie said, stabbing a piece of bison burger with his fork, “Callie and Jake are heading for a split. You can feel it. Like a thunderhead moving in.”

Noah didn’t look up from his sandwich. “Not my business.”

“No, but it might be your opportunity,” McKenzie said, lowering his voice with mock seriousness. “You’re both single. She’s got a thing for wounded types. You said she made the first move on your brother Luke. She likes dogs. You have a dog.”

“Had a dog. That was Luke’s.”

“Either way, she makes it pretty obvious.”

“McKenzie, I’m not doing this,” Noah muttered.

“You already are. Look at you.” McKenzie gestured at him with a fry. “You’ve got the brooding stare. The ‘I’m fine being alone’ thing. Women eat that up.”

“She’s a friend. A co-worker.”

McKenzie gave a dramatic sigh. “So where does Natalie Ashford fit into this? Still in the ‘let’s just keep it professional’ phase, or have we graduated to ‘accidental brush of the hands’ territory?”

“Like I would tell you.” Noah smirked despite himself. “Eat your damn lunch.”

McKenzie chuckled and leaned back, letting the rustic chair creak beneath him.

The copper-topped bar behind them caught the afternoon sun, glowing like a hearth.

Antler chandeliers hung above, casting tangled shadows across the mahogany walls.

If there was a cozier crime discussion spot in all of Adirondack County, Noah hadn’t found it yet.

His phone buzzed against the table.

He glanced down. Rishi Gupta.

“Hold on,” he said, answering. “Rishi, you got something?”

The tech analyst’s voice came through clear but rapid. “Yeah. We finished pulling the data from Stephen Strudwell’s phone. It was messy, but one thing stands out, there are over two hundred messages between him and someone named Theresa Voss .”

Noah’s brow lifted. “That name sounds familiar?”

“Should be,” Rishi said. “She’s the owner of Whispering Pines Campground. Small private site off Route 30.”

McKenzie perked up; mouth full.

“Stephen and Theresa had regular contact,” Rishi continued. “Texts, call logs, even a few voicemails. Some of the messages are… well, let’s just say, intimate. Not graphic, but the kind of stuff that suggests a relationship. Possibly romantic.”

“How do you know it wasn’t just… I don’t know, a mentor situation?” Noah asked. “Friend of the family?”

“Because of the tone,” Rishi said. “You don’t text your aunt at midnight saying you wish things were simpler and you hate sneaking around.”

McKenzie let out a low whistle.

“Any idea how old she is?” Noah asked.

“Mid to late fifties. I looked her up. There’s a business registry photo and a local news clip from a zoning dispute two years ago. Here’s the kicker, though?—”

“Hit me.”

“She’s transgender. Used to go by Terry Voss . Male until about ten years ago. Name was legally changed.”

Noah blinked. “Wait, what?”

“Yup. Found the court record. And a couple priors under the old name. Disturbing the peace, resisting arrest, minor assault. Nothing recent, but still. There was also a documented incident last summer between her and the victim group.”

Noah leaned forward. “What kind?”

“Campground dispute. Theresa called the cops on them, loud, drunk, some altercation with another camper. She ended up banning them permanently. Wrote about it on her personal blog, actually under a post called ‘The joys and woes of running a campground.’ Called the teens ‘disrespectful and dangerous.’ Said she feared for other guests.”

“Jesus,” Noah said. “Anything else?”

“Yeah, in the messages there is one video attached from Terry. I mean, Theresa recording Stephen half naked with another girl on top of him. Theresa didn’t like it one bit. That was sent over on the night of their deaths.”

“Was the girl on Stephen one of the four?”

“No. You’ll see. I’ll send over the file. Texts, audio, everything I pulled.”

“Good work, Rishi.”

“One last thing,” Rishi added. “Before you head over there, brace yourself. She’s a character.”

The line went dead.

Noah slowly lowered the phone. McKenzie had already stopped pretending not to listen.

“He’s kidding,” McKenzie said. “A teenage boy secretly dating an older trans woman with a criminal record, who just happened to have banned the entire group a year ago?”

“I’m not kidding.”

McKenzie blinked. “Okay, I’m not saying it’s a motive, but… it’s one hell of a connection.”

A moment later files came through on his phone and he was able to view the text message exchange between Stephen and Theresa.

Among the heated exchange was a video of the girl on top of Stephen.

He paused the video and studied the face, then it dawned on him where he’d seen her.

It was in the photo at the Strudwell house. It was Avery Calder.

Noah nodded. “Okay, I need to talk to Theresa.”

“Can’t wait,” McKenzie said, already wiping his hands with a napkin.

“Not you. I’m bringing Callie.”

McKenzie looked genuinely offended. “What? Why?”

“Because I need a light touch. And you don’t have one.”

“I’m extremely progressive,” McKenzie said, gesturing to himself. “Big fan of Gen Z. I love rainbows. I recycle. I’m neuro divergent. And I suffer from panic attacks.”

Noah stood, tossing some bills on the table. “Callie will keep it civil.”

McKenzie sighed. “Just don’t let her charm you into therapy on the way.”

As they left Peak 46, rain began to collect in the grooves of the lodge’s stone steps, and the sky was already bleeding toward twilight.

Outside, the world felt quiet, too quiet for how loud the case was suddenly becoming.

Noah cut the outboard motor and let the momentum carry the boat into the shallows, the hull whispering against the weeds below. The lake was mostly still now, dusk bleeding purple across the ripples. Out here, alone, with the mountains shadowing the far shore, the air felt older. Unbothered.

He stepped out, boots sinking slightly into the muddy shoreline, and reached for his flashlight. It clicked on with a soft thunk, the beam slicing across damp sand, scattered pine needles, and the darker impressions of something once violent.

The tents were gone, packed up for forensics, but the outlines remained with flattened grass, snapped poles, a circle of stones that had once held fire.

Noah moved through it like a memory, the scene lingering in fragments.

Ash. Blood. A shoe twisted the wrong way. A broken glowstick wedged in the dirt.

There was something about returning to a crime scene long after everyone had left. Without the noise he could think. He was often able to piece together something he hadn’t noticed in the hustle of cops.

Noah walked the scene again, once, twice. Ten minutes turned into twenty as he tried to imagine how someone might approach in the middle of the night to kill them.

He paused, hearing only the lapping of the water against the shore. Then a faint sound, brush shifting. Something, or someone, moving just beyond the treeline.

He went still.

Another crack.

Then movement.

"Hey!" he called, and burst forward just as the figure bolted.

His flashlight bobbed wildly as he sprinted. Whoever it was had a head start, but not by much. Noah pushed through the undergrowth, branches slapping at his arms, breath fogging in the cooling air. The figure ducked left, toward the ridge.

"Stop!" Noah shouted.

No answer.

He gave chase. The terrain wasn’t friendly — rocks, tangled roots, uneven ground — but adrenaline flattened the pain. The figure glanced back. That was enough.

Noah lunged.

They both went down hard.

The man wheezed under him, squirming, hands up.

“Easy! Easy! I’m not resisting!”

Noah rolled him over, pinning him down.

The guy was maybe mid-40s, completely bald, with a bristly beard and a paunch spilling over his belt. His glasses had flung off somewhere, and his coat was dotted with burrs.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Miles Banning!” he wheezed. “A podcaster! I was just curious. I swear, I’m not here to mess anything up!”

Noah caught his breath. “You trespassed on an active crime scene.”

“I didn’t take anything! I just... stepped into it.”

“You ran from me.”

“Wouldn’t you?”

Noah stood, pulling the man up with him. “Start explaining.”

Miles brushed dirt off his flannel shirt, breathing hard. “I host Gone Squatchin’ . Maybe you’ve heard of it?” He took out a phone and showed Noah.

Noah stared.

“Okay, maybe not. But we’re on Spotify. YouTube. iTunes. I came up here on a tip. Four dead? One missing? A brutal attack. It’s all over the cryptid forums. A few photos were leaked. You can’t keep something like that quiet, not around here. That kind of news travels.”

Noah narrowed his eyes. “You’re saying the media already knows?”

“Not officially. But whispers? Oh yeah. Locals are talking. There’s posts, threads. Someone said they saw claw marks in the trees.”

“You read that online?”

Miles looked smug. “I read it... and I saw it.”

He gestured toward a canvas bag strapped over his shoulder. Noah reached for it, unzipping it roughly.

Inside, nestled in foam, was a small cast, plaster-white, rough-edged, and unmistakably shaped like an enormous footprint.

Noah held it up in the light of his flashlight. “You took a cast?”

Miles tried to look proud. “That’s part of real field work. You don’t get that from a studio mic.”

“You realize this is now evidence.”

Miles gaped. “You’re confiscating it?”

“You bet your bearded ass I am.”

“That’s—” He raised a finger. “You know what, fine. But you better label it properly. Left foot, partial arch, north-facing slope.”

Noah stared at him. “You catalog your trespasses?”

“I catalog everything. I’m very detail oriented.”

A moment passed, their breath loud in the quiet woods.

Noah finally asked, “How did you find this spot?”

Miles looked sheepish. “I tracked it. It doesn’t take much to piece together the location. I followed the chatter, news reports, then stopped by Ed’s place. We pinned it down to here.”

Noah blinked. “Hold on a second. Ed Baxter?”