Chapter 60 Gone
Gone
DEPUTY SARA PARKER
The mountains stood still beneath a hard, silver sky—quiet, waiting. Deputy Sara Parker sat in her cruiser beneath the hemlocks—perfect spot, perfect angle. Usually she caught plenty here—speeders, drunks, even Darcy Nolan once, back before anyone knew the truth.
The cruiser smelled faintly of leather and coffee, the dash lights casting a low amber glow across her hands. Nights like this made her restless, wanting to prove herself. In the silence, her mind drifted—always back to Scout.
She pictured him at the tree lighting last week—Tessa Quinn beside him, suitcase at her feet, the two of them sparring the way people do when they don’t realize they’re being watched. Sara had told herself she didn’t care. She did.
She shook it off, forcing her thoughts elsewhere: Rosie weaving through laughing kids, Burke steady at Caitlin’s side, the town lit gold against the mountain dark. Christmas in Sylva had always been her favorite. Maybe this year she’d finally find her place in it.
She reached for her coffee, took a slow sip, and watched headlights crest the distant curve—two quick flashes, one long. Unit 6. Scout.
She keyed her mic. “Unit 6, you done for the night?”
His voice came warm through the static. “Copy that, Three. Headed home before Burke finds me another paper trail.”
She smiled. “Try not to speed. I’d hate to write you up.”
“Wouldn’t give you the satisfaction,” he teased. “Night, Parker.”
“Night, Scout.”
His taillights slipped around the next bend, swallowed by the trees. The quiet that followed pressed close—too deep, too sudden.
The radio crackled once, then fell silent.
She frowned, checked the radar gun. Empty road.
Then—lights.
Two white orbs burned deep in the woods behind her—too high for headlights, too still for anything natural.
Her pulse jumped. Dang hunter, she muttered, half to herself.
The forest hushed—no owls, no insects, nothing she could name.
She grabbed the mic. “Dispatch, this is Unit Three. I’ve got—”
Static hissed. Then dead air.
Dashboard lights flickered once and died. Engine still idled. Radio dead.
She exhaled sharply. Dang hunter with a spotlight, she said again, quieter this time, but her hand hovered near her holster.
The cruiser door groaned as she stepped out. Gravel shifted under her boots. “Hey! Anyone out there?”
No answer. Only wind.
Her flashlight sliced through the dark, catching mist and branches—then a shape.
A figure stood between the trees, tall and still. The beam glinted off something pale—porcelain maybe—smooth where a face should have been.
Her throat tightened. She drew her weapon, flashlight trembling just enough to show it. “Jackson County Sheriff’s Office! Make yourself known!”
Silence.
Then—a rustle behind her.
She spun, gun and light sweeping together. “Show me your hands!”
Another sound—this time off to her right. Fast. Low.
Her pulse slammed in her ears. Too many directions. Too many shadows.
She turned again, breath quick and shallow. “Who’s there?”
Nothing.
Only the whisper of wind through pine needles and the soft tick of her idling cruiser.
Sara’s breath came fast, fogging in the cold. She took one step backward toward the car.
Then—the woods went still. Utterly still.
DEPUTY SCOUT WILSON
Highway 73 — Pre-Dawn
Headlights cut across frost-slick gravel. Scout’s truck skidded to a stop beside her cruiser—engine still running, parking lights glowing like two dull eyes in the dark.
The driver’s door hung open. Coffee steamed where it had spilled across the seat, the radio hissing with faint static.
“Parker!” he shouted, bolting from the truck. His voice cracked the silence, echoing through the trees.
He waited—listened. Nothing.
“Parker!” he yelled again, breaking into a run, flashlight beam cutting through the mist.
Branches whipped against his jacket as he pushed deeper into the woods. “Sara! Answer me!”
His boot sank into the mud, the cold seeping through the leather as he turned in a slow circle, light sweeping over nothing but empty forest.
No prints. No movement. No Sara.
The realization hit hard, cold as the air burning his lungs. Fear clawed up his throat, sharper than he’d ever admit.
Sara Parker was gone.
End of Walking Away
Next Book — Slipping Away
Because some people don’t just walk away—they vanish.