Page 58 of Silent Bones

In the hall, McKenzie’s boots thudded against the hardwood as he returned. He gave a slight shake of his head, nothing remarkable found. A cracked picture frame on the dresser, a dusty treadmill in the spare room, a dog crate in the corner.

“You said you were drinking the night Jesse died,” McKenzie said, rejoining them in the living room. “I don’t see many empties. Just that one bottle in your hand.”

Mark didn’t flinch. “Took the rest to the dump Monday. Didn’t realize I needed to keep ’em for exhibit A.”

McKenzie crossed his arms. “You make a habit of cleaning when you’re mourning?”

“I make a habit of not letting my house smell like rot.”

Noah watched Mark’s hands, they hadn’t stopped twitching.

“You ever take drugs?” McKenzie asked. “Meth for instance?”

“Of course. But I don’t do them now.”

“Any idea why your son would’ve gone camping that weekend?” Noah asked.

Mark’s lips curled. “Probably to get away from me. Or maybe to chase ghosts with that podcaster nut.”

“You mean Miles Banning?”

“Yeah. That bald clown with the ham radio and Sasquatch stickers. Jesse thought he was funny. He listened to the podcast. I thought he was pathetic.”

McKenzie reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded photo, the one of Jesse and Stephen near the old campsite, arms draped across each other, smiling into the sun. He placed it gently on the coffee table.

Mark stared. His jaw went tight.

“You recognize where this was taken?” McKenzie asked.

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

Mark leaned in. His voice dropped to a near-growl. “What game are you two playing? You come in here, poke at me like I’m some kind of animal, and for what? So you can cross my name off your list?”

“We’re not crossing anyone off,” Noah said. “Yet.”

Mark’s breath hitched. He stood, pacing to the kitchen, grabbed a glass, filled it with water from the tap. His hands shook slightly as he drank.

Then he turned. And exploded.

“I raised that boy!” he shouted. “Worked every day to keep a roof over his head. Paid for his pads, his braces, his goddamn truck! And you show up here with your theories about him being gay and your photos like I didn’t love him!”

The glass slipped from his hand, shattered on the floor. Water sprayed across the linoleum like blood.

McKenzie tensed, took a half-step forward.

But Mark didn’t advance. He just stood there, chest heaving, hands trembling at his sides.

“I didn’t kill my son,” he whispered. “But I lost him long before that night.”

Noah didn’t speak. He knew the look on Mark’s face, one of rage and barely holding back a flood.

“You ever think,” Mark continued, voice cracking, “maybe he ran into someone else out there? Someone who didn’t care if he was good, or smart, or kind. Someone who saw weakness and decided that was enough?”

“Do you know something we don’t?” McKenzie asked, his tone sharpening.

Mark’s eyes snapped to his. “I know this town. I know what it lets slide. You look away long enough, the things you don’t see grow teeth.”