Chapter 18
Scott House — Late Morning
The drive out felt like it always had.
Same stretch of road. Same fences running the line of the pasture. Same bend where the trees opened up enough to see the ridge beyond.
Burke parked beside his dad’s truck and killed the engine.
He just sat there.
Then grabbed the file and got out.
Burton was out back, exactly where he usually was this time of day—half under the hood of the old truck, tools spread across the bench like he’d started something and hadn’t quite decided if he was finishing it.
“Morning,” Burke called.
Burton didn’t look up right away. “You break something?”
“Not yet.”
That earned him a quiet laugh.
Burke stepped up beside the workbench, setting the file down but not opening it.
“I was going through some old stuff this morning,” he said.
Burton tightened something under the hood, then reached for a rag. “Sounds like a you problem.”
“Clara Vale,” Burke said.
That got him.
Then Burton straightened, wiping his hands.
“Yeah,” he said. “That was a long time ago.”
“Talley place,” Burke added. “Girl went missing.”
Burton nodded once. “That’s right.”
Burke shifted his weight. “Marked a walkaway.”
“That’s what it was.”
Burke frowned, not pushing—just working it through.
“She left everything behind,” he said. “Clothes. Work. Didn’t come back for any of it.”
Burton shrugged, folding the rag in his hands.
“People don’t always leave the way we think they should,” he said. “Especially when they’re young.”
Burke nodded once, like that tracked.
“Grant mentioned it,” he said. “Said the girls found some paintings up there. Got interested.”
Burton snorted lightly. “Yeah. They mentioned it at the party.”
“You don’t think there’s anything to it?”
“No,” Burton said. “We looked. No signs of trouble. No reason to keep it open.”
Burke let that sit.
“Wade Hollis came up in the file.”
Burton’s hand paused briefly against the edge of the bench before he reached for the rag again.
“Wade’s been in a lot of things over the years,” he said. “Doesn’t make him guilty of anything.”
Burton said it evenly, but he didn’t look at him.
Burke watched him a beat longer.
Then nodded.
“Yeah,” he said. “That’s what I figured.”
Burton reached for a socket, turning back toward the engine.
Burke picked up the file.
He turned back toward the truck.
Nothing about the conversation had been wrong. Nothing Burton said didn’t make sense.
And still—as Burke pulled the door open and slid behind the wheel—something low and familiar tightened in his gut.
Like he’d almost seen something—
and missed it.
He sat there, hands resting on the steering wheel, staring out at the stretch of pasture beyond the house.
Same fences. Same ridge.
Same land he’d known his whole life.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he could still remember crayons rolling across the sheriff’s office floor while his father talked quietly behind closed doors.
Burke reached over, pulled the file into his lap, and flipped it open.
“Walkaway,” he muttered.
He didn’t close it this time.
He started reading.