Page 71 of Silent Bones

“You’re not going to like this. We’ve got another body,” McKenzie said. “Upstairs unit over the bait shop near Tupper. Name’s Banning.”

Noah bolted upright. “Miles Banning? The podcaster?”

“Yeah. Found unresponsive. Local PD called it in as an overdose. It doesn’t feel right.”

Noah was already out of bed, reaching for his clothes. “I’ll meet you there.”

The bait shopwas still shuttered when Noah arrived. Gray metal siding, faded sign:Wilderness Worms & Tackle. No lights in the windows. A patrol cruiser idled nearby, exhaust curling through the morning mist.

McKenzie waited at the back stairwell with Callie, both in jackets, arms crossed against the cold.

“Owner’s out of town,” McKenzie said. “Neighbor called it in. Said he hadn’t seen Miles since Sunday night. Smelled something this morning. PD had to pry the window. Got in through the bathroom.”

They climbed the metal stairs to the second-floor apartment. The paint was chipped, the railing loose. Noah stepped inside first.

The smell hit immediately, a blend of stale beer, body odor, and something metallic underneath. Not full decomp. But close.

Miles Banning was face-down on a battered faux-leather couch, his legs dangling off the side like he’d just slumped there mid-thought. One arm was tucked beneath him. The other hung loose, palm up.

On the coffee table: an uncapped syringe, a lighter, a spoon still streaked with something crystalline. Beside it, an overturned glass and a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s.

“What a mess,” Callie murmured. She moved to the body and knelt beside him.

McKenzie stepped in behind them.

Noah scanned the room. Small. Cluttered. Every inch filled with something, boxes of podcast gear, trail maps taped to the wall, animal track guides, torn notebooks, thumbtacks stuck in a corkboard shaped like the Adirondacks.

But something was missing.

He walked to the desk near the window. A laptop was gone, though the charging cable still dangled from the wall outlet. He turned slowly. Camera gear was stacked neatly on a shelf: GoPro, drone controller, lens kit. But no SD cards. The reader was there but it was empty.

“Someone cleaned up,” he said.

He moved to the kitchenette. There were open cabinets and empty beer cans in the sink. Lots of crumbs. Nothing useful. He crouched near the sink to look below and found it; a duffel bag shoved behind a box of cleaning supplies.

He pulled it out, set it on the counter, and unzipped it.

Inside: five vacuum-sealed plastic bricks of what looked like crystal meth. Pale blue tint. Each stamped with a small, circular label.

Noah stared for a moment. The packaging was nearly identical to the sample bag they found in the woods off the trail.

He turned to Callie. “He had product.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You think he stole it?”

“Or found it.” Noah’s voice was flat. “Or recorded someone who didn’t want to be recorded. Damn idiot, I told him to stay out of it.”

McKenzie whistled low behind them. “This got dark fast.”

They continued combing the room. Noah spotted a familiar notebook, spine torn, half the pages dog-eared, on the nightstand.

He thumbed through it. Scribbles, timestamps, flight path sketches, odd notes:

“Black SUV seen twice. Plates covered.”

“They’re following me.”

Callie opened a drawer and found a photo tucked beneath a takeout menu. She held it up and could see a photo of prints. Same ones they had analyzed.