Chapter 23
Sheriff Burke Scott — Back at the Station
The station doors rattled as a cold draft swept through. Scout was at the sink in the locker room, scrubbing dried mud from his hands with methodical intensity. His face was rough with stubble, fatigue creasing the edges of his eyes. He’d showered, but the restless energy hadn’t washed off.
Burke leaned in the doorway, the old coffee pot hissing behind him.
“Conference room in ten.”
Scout didn’t look up. “Copy.”
Burke studied him a second. “Scout—are you good?”
A beat. “Fine.” He rinsed his hands.
It was a lie, but Burke let it go. “Let’s get everyone on the same page.”
Scout slung on his jacket and strode out. Burke lingered, watching the door swing shut. He’d watched Wilson carry bad hits before; this felt a lot like one of them.
Special Agent Tessa Quinn
Tessa stepped into the station. Her hair was pulled into a neat knot, makeup light, a small flesh-toned bandage cutting cleanly across the faint bruise at her temple. Her composure was nearly perfect.
She prayed it would hold.
Inside the conference room, the heater clanked. Scout was already there, bent over a case file, sleeves shoved high on his forearms. His hair still damp and the stubble still on his chin.
Their eyes met—a spark, quick and electric—then gone. The flicker rattled her more than she’d allow.
She slid into the seat across from him. Every motion careful, deliberate.
It’s over. This is work. Don’t let them see through you.
Deputy Scout Wilson
He knew she was there before he looked up. Last night felt a thousand years away. Now she was all business—efficient, composed, like she could turn emotion on and off with a switch.
He turned the page too sharply; it snapped under his finger.
Guilt rattled in his chest, steady, familiar.
Burke’s entrance was a mercy.
Denton entered with McHan, sleet melting on his collar. He registered the charged stillness first. Tessa and Scout sat opposite each other, an invisible gulf stretched taut between them—both too composed.
Tessa looked undisturbed. Scout looked like a man who’d lost a fight with himself.
Even Denton seemed to feel it; his gaze flicked between them before he deliberately took the chair beside her—closer than necessary.
Sheriff Burke Scott
He set his coffee down with a dull thunk. “Alright. Let’s get to it.”
He nodded to Tessa. “What’ve we got from the journal?”
She opened the folder, voice steady—only a slight tremor in her fingers betraying anything human beneath the badge.
“First page is addressed directly: If you’re reading this, I’m alive. But he won’t let me leave until the story is finished.”
The words landed hard. Even McHan quit shifting.
Scout leaned forward. “Means she’s writing under duress. Whoever took her wants something specific.”
“Personal,” Burke added.
Tessa slid a photocopy across the table. Their hands almost touched. Heat flared.
She sat perfectly still—because if she let herself feel anything, her mask would crack wide open.
“Sara wrote down four names before she vanished. Raines. Keller. Sinclair. Coach Benton. All connected to Lauren Pierce. All on campus.”
McHan whistled softly. “You think the same person who took Parker went after Pierce?”
Burke nodded. “Whoever did this wants their story told. And Sara Parker was the one who could tell it.”
Denton’s tone was clipped. “We’ll handle the faculty interviews. University jurisdiction.”
Burke’s eyes sharpened. “You’ll coordinate with us. This isn’t a turf war—it’s a hunt.”
He continued. “Raines, Keller, and Sinclair—professors. Lauren Pierce worked as their administrative assistant. Coach Benton dated her, then cheated with a student. Lauren reported him. We need whatever came of that HR complaint.”
“McHan—Benton. Denton—Keller. Tessa and I will handle Raines and Sinclair. We run them back-to-back before word gets out.”
No one argued.
“That’s it,” Burke said. “Move.”
Special Agent Tessa Quinn
The meeting broke. She followed Scout down the hall, boots clicking softly.
He turned into the evidence room. She followed, closing the door behind them.
Rows of metal shelves stretched deep. Cold. Windowless. Every case tagged and boxed—their own ghosts tucked inside.
“Scout—wait,” she said softly.
He stopped near the back aisle, hand braced on a crate.
Her collar had shifted in the rush back to professionalism. Just enough to reveal a faint crescent of red low on her throat — where his stubble had scraped her skin raw the night before.
His eyes caught on it. Held.
She reached up and adjusted her collar — too late.
Then he looked away.
“Tessa,” he said without turning. “Don’t.”
“I need to explain.”
“There’s nothing to explain.” His voice was rough. Controlled. “You had someone. I should’ve known better.”
He turned then, eyes sharp, pain buried under professionalism.
“That’s on me.”
She stepped closer. “It’s not what you think.”
A beat.
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, the sound sharp in the tight, windowless room.
His gaze dropped — not to her face — but to the faint crescent at her collar.
He swallowed.
“Doesn’t matter,” he said finally. “Sara does.”
He huffed a dry, humorless laugh. “I lost focus. I took my eye off the ball. Sara is the ball. That has to come first. Let it go.”
She almost reached out—almost—but protocol kept her hands still.
Before she could speak, the door creaked open.
Kyle Denton stood there. Frozen. Watching too closely.
“Am I interrupting?”
Scout’s face shut down. “Nope.”
And he walked out.
Deputy Scout Wilson
God, why did I say it like that?
He’d seen the way her face closed when he told her to let it go. Like he’d shoved something fragile back into a box and nailed it shut.
He hadn’t meant it like that.
Sara was the priority. That part was true.
But last night hadn’t been a distraction.
It hadn’t been a mistake.
It had been the first honest thing he’d let himself feel in a long time.
And he’d just told her it didn’t matter.
Sheriff Burke Scott
Through the station window, Burke watched Scout cross the lot, head bowed against the cold. Snow whispered across the windshield as Scout climbed into his truck, hands tight on the wheel.
Burke sipped his coffee, the bitter heat grounding him.
Something in Scout’s posture told him the weather wasn’t the only thing breaking.