Chapter 17
Jackson County Sheriff’s Office — Monday, Midmorning
Mondays usually came in loud—phones ringing, deputies in and out, somebody mad about something that didn’t matter by noon.
Today—not so much.
Burke sat at his desk, one boot hooked on the rung of his chair, a half-finished cup of coffee cooling beside his elbow. The morning calls had already come and gone. A noise complaint. A minor fender bender. Paperwork wrapped, reports filed.
The wall-mounted TV in the corner bled low sound into the quiet—regional news out of Asheville.
“…state officials warning about a new high-purity methamphetamine variant in western counties. Street name ‘Ghost Ice’—so-called for how cleanly it hits and how fast it disappears into small communities…”
Burke glanced toward the screen, watched the anchor’s serious face for a beat, then looked back at his coffee.
“Last damn thing we need,” he muttered. “Another fancy poison with a cute name.”
He should’ve moved on.
Instead—he pulled the file back toward him.
Vale, Clara.
He opened it again.
Same thin stack of paper. Same clipped summaries. Same conclusion.
Walkaway.
Burke flipped through slower this time.
The initial report. Missing person. Filed by Sam Talley.
Follow-up. Search conducted. Area canvassed. No evidence of struggle. No signs of foul play.
He leaned back, eyes narrowing.
Too clean.
He tapped the edge of the file once, then reached for the back page.
Names. Interviewed parties.
He skimmed.
Talley. A couple of hands from the livestock barn. Local business owners.
Then—his eyes stopped.
Hollis, Wade.
Burke went still.
Read it again.
Hollis, Wade.
A small prickle crept up the back of his neck.
That didn’t fit.
Not for a woman who supposedly packed up and walked out.
He flipped back a page. Then forward again.
Same name. Same ridge. Same piece of land.
Burke exhaled slowly.
“Alright,” he muttered. “Let’s see what you actually gave me.”
He pushed back from his desk and headed for the back room.
The evidence room smelled like dust and old cardboard.
Shelves lined the walls, boxes stacked and labeled in faded ink—years of things that had mattered once and, for one reason or another, still did.
Burke ran a hand along the row until he found it.
VALE, CLARA.
Standard issue. Nothing special.
He pulled it down, set it on the metal table, and flipped the lid open.
Inside—more than he expected.
Not much.
But more than the file.
He started sorting.
Careful. Methodical.
A plastic sleeve of photographs—cabin exterior, ridgeline, interior shots of the place as it had been found.
A small bundle of copied sketches—looser than the ones at the barn, but unmistakably hers.
And beneath that—statements.
He picked up the first.
Talley, Sam.
Short. Emotional even through the formal wording.
He set it aside.
Blackwood Mabel — Blackwood Estate Winery.
Burke’s brow lifted.
Didn’t remember that one being in the main file.
He kept going.
Harper, Ned — Moonshine Creek RV Park.
Wilson, Travis — Hollis Ridge Farm (employee).
Burke paused there.
Read that one a little slower.
Then flipped back.
Talley. Hollis. Wilson.
Back again.
Same names. Same circle. Same land.
“That wasn’t nothing.”
He set the papers down, resting both hands on the edge of the table.
For a long second, stood there.
Thinking.
Then, he reached for the Hollis statement again.
Eyes narrowing this time.
Not reading it as a form.
Reading it as a man.
A small, familiar unease settled in him.
Burke closed the box halfway.
Straightened.
Might as well ask Dad.
All at once, the almost thirty-year-old file stopped feeling buried.
It felt awake.