Chapter 9
Special Agent Tessa Quinn — Sara’s Apartment Main Street, Sylva — Morning
The hardware store on Main Street had been there longer than anyone could remember—its red-brick face worn smooth by time. The outside stairwell hugged the left wall, a narrow climb darkened by age and grit.
A train whistle cut through the morning, echoing up the stairwell. Tessa paused at the top, the mountain air cool against her skin.
At the landing, four apartment doors faced each other across a short interior hall. Deputy Jenkins waited by the far one, the crime-scene tape already cut.
“Unit Four,” he said. “Keys are on the hook inside. We cleared for entry.”
Tessa nodded. “Thanks, Jenkins.”
The apartment was small but full of life—warm paint, woven blankets, a half-read paperback on the arm of the sofa. Light filtered through lace curtains onto a tidy kitchen table beneath the front window. From here, Sara would’ve had a clear view of Main Street—the Blue Ridge rising beyond.
Tessa stopped just inside the door, letting the air settle. She believed rooms spoke when you gave them time to breathe.
A coffee mug sat beside the sink, lipstick faint on the rim. A jacket hung on the back of a chair.
Camera clicking softly, Tessa made a slow circuit. The place felt still, as if it hadn’t yet realized its owner was gone.
On the table sat a neat stack of folders, one on top labeled in Sara’s looping handwriting:
PIERCE, LAUREN — Missing Person
Beside it lay a printed campus map marked with circles around the Humanities Building, Athletics Office, and Admin Lot. A yellow sticky note in the margin read: Prof. Raines — follow-up?
Tessa brushed her fingers along the folder’s edge.
“So this is what you were working on,” she murmured.
A second sticky note clung to the corner of the map, written in Sara’s block letters:
PREGNANT?
Tessa’s pulse tripped.
Lauren the missing woman… or Sara?
She forced the thought away. There’d be time for that later. Focus. Facts.
She flipped the folder open. Beneath sketches of timelines and initials, Sara had written:
Keller — short temper
Benton — lies easily
Sinclair — watch the eyes
Tessa photographed each page, then returned the pad to its place.
The bedroom was equally neat—uniform folded sharp, a blanket folded tight across the bed. A throw pillow at the headboard read Tar Heels.
Something pale peeked from beneath it.
She lifted the pillow carefully.
A photograph—Sara and Scout Wilson, shoulders touching at a department cookout, both laughing, her head tipped toward him. Friendly.
It shouldn’t have mattered to her.
For some reason, it did.
It wasn’t the photo that snagged her.
It was how easy he looked beside her.
A memory flickered—Sara’s look at the Christmas-tree lighting last Thanksgiving. Jealousy. Quick. Unmistakable.
Tessa blinked hard, forcing herself back to the job. The warmth in Sara’s eyes struck something raw—something she’d learned long ago to keep buried beneath discipline and distance.
She’d started that way once — sleeping beside open files.
That’s how you burned out.
Box it up.
She almost replaced the photo—then noticed a sliver of paper wedged beneath the frame. She eased it free: a torn notebook page, Sara’s handwriting tight and slanted.
He’ll never see me that way. Maybe that’s for the best. Sometimes I wish he’d look at me and see more than a deputy with potential.
No name. It didn’t need one.
Tessa went still.
For a moment, instinct warred with something softer. She knew this kind of loneliness—how it stayed quiet under duty, then flared in private.
She let herself feel it just long enough for the ache to register.
Then she slid the note into an evidence sleeve, her hand steady as she sealed it.
She took one last look around—the mug, the files, the photo now bagged and tagged.
Whatever happened to you started with Lauren Pierce, she thought. Those bones weren’t random.
Someone wanted to make sure this stayed buried.
And maybe you with it.
A chill moved up her spine.
Tessa stepped into the hallway. The stairwell waited—narrow, dim.
Halfway down, a window reflected the interior light. For a heartbeat, she could’ve sworn a second figure stood beside her own—hair pulled back, a flash of a green notebook.
She stopped cold.
Blink.
Gone.
At the bottom step, she pulled out her phone. “Sheriff Scott.”
“I’ve got something,” she said. “Sara was working a cold case—Lauren Pierce. Notes, names, maps. And something else… personal.”
A pause.
“Connected?” the sheriff asked.
“I gave every deputy an old cold case back in early fall,” he added. “Told ’em to work one when they had downtime. Guess hers didn’t stay cold.”
“Guess not,” Tessa said.
She tucked the evidence bag inside her coat and glanced toward Main Street. City Limits Café sat a block away, windows glowing, people moving inside like the world was still normal.
She started the SUV.
Before she could shift into gear, a truck rolled to the curb beside her—quiet, deliberate.
Scout Wilson.
Window halfway down. His face looked carved out of fatigue.
“Find anything?” he asked.
Tessa nodded once. “A cold case she was working. Notes. Names. A campus map.”
Scout’s jaw tightened. “Get in.”
Tessa hesitated just long enough to register the command in his voice.
“We can talk on the way,” he added, already reaching across to push the passenger door open. “Medical examiner’s office. She’s ready for us.”
Tessa killed the ignition and stepped out.
She slid into the passenger seat, the cab warm, faintly smelling of leather and after-shave.
Scout put the truck in gear without another word.
Main Street slid past in familiar storefronts and steady faces—Sylva carrying on, unaware of what was coming.
Ahead, Asheville waited—with answers or more questions, she didn’t know yet.