Page 11 of Silent Bones

Noah pushed the door open, the little brass bell chiming softly as he stepped inside.

Savannah was already there, at a corner table by the window, her shoulders slightly hunched, hands wrapped around a paper cup she hadn’t touched.

Noah’s heart sank, just a little.

It wasn’t just the case.

No, it was something else.

He crossed the room quietly, the noise of the shop dimming at the edges, and took the seat across from her.

“Hey,” he said gently.

Savannah looked up, and in that moment, Noah saw it, the thin fracture under the surface, the thing she hadn’t let show over the phone.

Her eyes were rimmed red, her mouth pressed thin, her fingers tightening briefly on the cup as if steadying herself.

“Noah,” she said softly. “Thanks for coming.”

Outside, the street hummed with the early morning: delivery trucks rumbling past, a jogger cutting through a crosswalk, a couple with matching backpacks laughing softly over coffee to-go.

But at their corner table, the air was still.

“What is it?” Noah asked, softer, reaching across and taking her hand.

Savannah blinked, and pulled herself back, gave him a faint smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Up close, she looked tired, older, Noah thought, though she was only a few years ahead of him. Fine lines were around her mouth that hadn’t been there last summer, a pale cast under her skin, and weight in her eyes.

“Savannah?” he asked.

She hesitated, then exhaled, rubbing a thumb along the edge of the cup. “It’s Cora,” she said quietly. “The chemo didn’t work.”

The words hit Noah like a punch. Savannah's partner had been fighting cancer for months. “Oh, Savannah…”

“They said it’s just time now. However much we can make of it.” Her voice was steady, but her eyes glistened. She sniffed once and gave a small shake of her head, as if to brush it all away. “Sorry. I wasn’t going to— I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” Noah said softly, “and you don’t have to be.”

Savannah gave him a look, sharp and grateful at the same time, then pressed her lips together, exhaling through her nose. “Thanks.”

For a moment, they just sat there, two people sharing a quiet grief at the edge of a busy morning. Then Savannah straightened slightly, reached down, and pulled a manila folder from her bag. “I wouldn’t have called you in if I didn’t need you, Noah.”

“I understand.” He took the folder, his fingers brushing hers briefly.

“DEC sent it over.”

Inside were printouts, glossy 8x10s clipped together, a preliminary report tucked in the back. Noah flipped through slowly, the images hitting harder than he expected: two collapsed tents, gear scattered across the dirt, blood splashed up a tree trunk, deep gouges in bark. One shot zoomed in on a sleeping bag torn nearly in half, the stuffing pulled out like cotton from a wound.

“Teenagers?”

She nodded. “Locals.”

“Animal attack?” he asked quietly.

“That’s what it looks like,” Savannah said. “But until DNA from the bodies comes back, we’re treating it as a criminal investigation.”

Noah tilted his head, still scanning the photos. “You’re on the fence.”

Savannah gave a small nod. “Yeah.”