Chapter 13
Jackson Valley University — Late Afternoon
Bare branches scraped the slate sky as Tessa stepped onto campus, wind threading through her coat to find the skin beneath. The Tuckasegee shimmered in the distance. Students hurried past with faces half-hidden in scarves.
Sheriff’s vehicles lined the Humanities Building, barely noticed. Inside, fluorescent lights painted everything too bright.
Tessa’s boots echoed beside Burke. Scout trailed behind, gaze catching every glance, every door that creaked shut a little too fast.
“Let’s keep it clean,” Burke muttered. “No accusations.”
Tessa nodded. “We start with Benton. He had history with Lauren—and Sara thought he’d be the last man she ever trusted.”
Burke’s voice stayed even. “Then we listen.”
Coach Clay Benton — Athletics Office
The small office looked like a locker room shrunk to fit—trophies lining the shelves, game charts pinned under yellow light. Coach Clay Benton stood near the window, arms folded tight over his jacket.
“Lauren Pierce,” Tessa said. “You knew her.”
“She worked here,” Benton said. “Handled department paperwork. Solid.”
“You dated,” Tessa said.
A beat. “For a while. It wasn’t serious.”
“Serious for who?”
“Guess not for either of us.”
A gust rattled the window, lifting a loose page from Benton’s desk. He caught it and smoothed it flat with a little too much care.
“When was the last time you saw her?” Burke asked.
“Months before she disappeared. We were done.”
“She spoke to Keller. Sinclair. Raines,” Tessa said. “You knew them?”
“Faculty types,” Benton said. “Liked attention.”
Tessa held his eyes. “Lauren Pierce isn’t missing anymore.”
Benton froze. “What?”
“She’s been identified,” Tessa said. “She’s dead.”
Color drained from his face. He turned toward the window like he needed something solid to look at.
“Dead?” His voice cracked. “Jesus.”
“Whoever did this,” Benton said, swallowing hard, “it wasn’t me. She didn’t deserve that.”
Tessa didn’t move. “Sara Parker received a voicemail,” she said. “The night she was taken.”
Benton blinked. “What?”
“A threat,” Tessa continued. “A man told her to stop asking questions about Lauren Pierce. Told her she was going to get herself hurt.”
Benton’s throat bobbed.
“Do you know anything about that voicemail?”
Benton shook his head too fast. “No. No, I don’t—”
“You sure?” Tessa asked. “Because the call came in late. Angry. Personal. Like someone who was tired of being pushed.”
Benton’s hands flexed once at his sides.
“I didn’t call her,” he snapped, then tried to pull it back. “I mean—Sara Parker never called me. I didn’t have her number.”
“You didn’t have to,” she said. “Not if she had yours.”
Silence.
“Sara had your name in her notes,” Burke said quietly.
Benton stared at the floor. When he looked up again, his eyes were glassy with something that could’ve been grief—
—or fear.
“She came by,” he said finally. “A few days ago. Asked questions. About Lauren. About what I knew.”
“And?”
“I told her it was over. That I hadn’t seen Lauren in months. That she needed to leave me out of it.”
“Did you threaten her?” Burke asked.
“No.” Benton’s voice went hoarse. “I didn’t threaten her.”
“Then help us,” Tessa said, stepping closer. “Because if you didn’t make that call, someone else did.”
Benton swallowed. His eyes flicked toward the door like he expected someone to be standing there.
“She got… intense,” he muttered. “Like she was convinced something happened here. Like she thought Lauren didn’t just vanish—she got erased.”
“And you thought what?” Tessa asked.
“I thought she was gonna get herself in trouble,” Benton said. “Not because of me. Because of—”
He stopped.
“Because of who?” Burke pressed.
Benton’s mouth tightened. “Forget it.”
“Coach,” Tessa said quietly, “Sara Parker is missing. And Lauren Pierce is dead. This isn’t the part where you protect your reputation.”
Benton stared at her a long moment, then looked away.
“I didn’t kill Lauren,” he said again. “And I didn’t take Parker.”
Tessa nodded once. “Then if you remember anything—anything—call.”
His hand trembled against the glass.
Daniel Keller — English Department
Keller’s office was precise—books aligned by color, a crooked award framed as if meant to look casual. He rose with a practiced smile.
“She was bright,” he said. “Organized. Kept things running.”
“She was vulnerable,” Tessa said. “You took advantage of that.”
A laugh lingered too long. “You’ve been talking to people.”
“Your wife came to campus,” Tessa said. “She met Lauren.”
The smile faltered. “Briefly.”
“She was pregnant.”
“That has nothing to do with this.”
“It has everything to do with it,” Tessa said. “Lauren was humiliated.”
He exhaled sharply. “She was emotional. I tried to help.”
“By sleeping with her?”
Silence stretched.
“She was lonely,” Keller said finally. “I made a mistake.”
“Lauren Pierce is dead,” Tessa said. Low. Direct.
His composure cracked—just a second. “Dead?” His voice wavered. “You’re sure?”
Burke nodded once.
“I didn’t kill her,” Keller said quickly.
Tessa watched him. “No. But you made her world smaller.”
He didn’t look up.
Preston Sinclair — Faculty Archives
“Sinclair’s office sat at the far end of the hall, lamplight spilling across shelves of fly-fishing magazines and framed photos of mountain streams.”
Scout gave a low whistle. “Hard to believe this guy teaches poetry,” he said. “Always amazed me.”
Sinclair grinned. “Hard to believe you supplied the beer at poker.”
“You knew Sara Parker,” Burke said.
“Well enough,” Sinclair said. “She came by last month. Said some records were missing.”
“Did she find them?” Tessa asked.
“She checked logs. Faculty correspondence. Said she’d circle back.” His smile faded. “She looked tired.”
Tessa’s voice dropped. “Lauren Pierce has been confirmed deceased.”
Sinclair bowed his head. “She deserved better than what this place gave her.”
“Where are the records?” Tessa asked.
“Downstairs,” he said, reaching for his keys. “I’ll show you.”
Scout fell in behind them as they moved into the hall. He hadn’t said much since Benton’s office, but his eyes had been on everything—Benton’s hands, Keller’s smile, the way people avoided looking at Burke.
And Tessa.
Not the way a man looked at a woman to admire her.
The way a deputy watched someone walk into danger without flinching.
She moved through the building like she belonged there—chin level, shoulders square, voice calm enough to steady a room.
Quinn didn’t posture.
She just did the job.
And that made him respect her.
Faculty Storage — Basement Level
The corridor below was dim, concrete echoing under their steps. Fluorescent light flickered on, revealing rows of metal shelves and tightly packed boxes.
Sinclair flipped open a ledger. “Sara Parker signed in two weeks ago. Checked Lauren’s file—Keller, Raines, and me.”
Burke leaned closer. “Did she say what she found?”
Sinclair shook his head. “She smiled and said, ‘You’ll see soon enough.’”
Burke’s jaw tightened. “You ever meet with Lauren Pierce after hours?”
Sinclair blinked once—like he hadn’t expected the question.
“I spoke to her when she needed something,” he said. “Admin work. Scheduling. Nothing unusual.”
“Campus security says different,” Tessa said.
Sinclair’s smile held, but it went thinner at the edges. “Excuse me?”
“A guard remembers seeing you with her late,” Burke said. “Faculty lounge. Lights off except a lamp by the window. Just the two of you.”
The basement seemed to get colder.
Sinclair let out a quiet breath, more offended than rattled. “This is what we’re doing now?”
“It’s what we have to do,” Burke said.
Sinclair’s eyes flicked to Scout, then back. “I didn’t hurt that girl. If I spoke to her after hours, it was because she asked. Because she worked late. Like half this campus.”
“Do you remember the night?” Tessa asked.
A beat.
Sinclair shrugged, too casual. “No.”
Burke wrote it down anyway. Not because it proved anything—because it meant Sinclair had been closer to Lauren than he’d admitted.
Tessa closed her notebook. “We’ll have forensics go through the records. Thank you.”
“If it brings her peace,” Sinclair said.
Hallway — Moments Later
As they stepped back into the stairwell, Burke rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Hate dragging Preston into this.”
“Still owes me fifty bucks,” Scout muttered.
Tessa said nothing, eyes catching the last of the daylight through the high windows.
Somewhere between truth and pretense, the stories were beginning to align.
Outside, students hurried past, the world already moving on.
The ground was closing over Lauren—
and if they didn’t move faster,
it might close over Sara too.
Tessa’s phone buzzed in her pocket.
She stopped walking.
Burke glanced back. Scout’s hand drifted—subtle, automatic—toward his sidearm. Not drawing. Just ready.
Tessa pulled the phone out.
Unknown Number.
A single message.
STOP DIGGING.
Her stomach dropped.
Scout’s voice came low beside her. “You okay?”
He was closer than she realized.
Tessa stared at the screen, then locked it with a thumb that didn’t shake.
“No,” she said quietly. “But I will be.”
And she kept walking.
Burke’s eyes locked on the screen. “That’s him.”
Scout’s voice came low. “Then we’re close.”