Page 125 of Shhh…It’s A Killer Story

"I don't think he'd sit the exam."

A tiny smile tugged at my lips despite everything. The smile faded almost as quickly as it came. Without the sound of his truck, the garden suddenly felt...

Quiet. Too quiet. The birds were still singing. The breeze still moved through the herbs. The rosemary still smelled wonderful. But something had gone missing from the morning.

Or perhaps...

Someone.

I dusted the soil from my gloves and stood, stretching the stiffness from my knees before turning back toward the cottage. Halfway to the porch, I paused. Not because someone called my name but because I could feel you still reading.

I smiled to myself.

People always ask what they should do when someone disappoints them. Walk away? Forgive them? Forget them? I don't know. I usually just delete the version of them that no longer fits the story. It's surprisingly peaceful. Like closing a document without saving. A factory reset.

My hand settled on the screen door. I glanced back over my shoulder with a thoughtful smile.

I wonder...

Which one of us will disappear from the other's mind first?

You...

Or me?

The screen door creaked softly as I stepped inside. The house welcomed me back with familiar silence. Sometimes...

Silence is exactly where stories begin.

Elias

The radio didn't chime. It crackled. A burst of static ripped through the cab before dispatch finally came over the speaker.

"All units, Code Four-Zero-Four. Old logging spur off Route Nine. Forensics requested. Repeat, all units respond to a Code Four-Zero-Four."

No one said anything. I glanced at the digital clock glowing faintly on the dashboard.

05:30.

Too early for decent coffee. Too fucking early for another body.

Outside, the mountains were still buried beneath a blanket of fog. Dawn hadn't arrived yet, leaving everything washed in heavy shades of charcoal and black. The pines clawed through the mist like broken spears, their tops swallowed by the low clouds. It looked like the mountain had decided to keep the sun for itself.

I shifted the truck into gear. The engine rumbled awake beneath my hands as we rolled out of the station yard and onto the empty road. Beside me, Derek shrugged into his jacket without taking his eyes off the half-empty paper cup balanced between his knees. He took one last swallow, grimaced, and muttered something about coffee that tasted like burnt motor oil.

In the back seat, Mason was already geared up. Arms folded. Chin tucked slightly toward his chest. Watching the passing tree line through the side window with the same unreadable expression he'd worn for most of the last two days.

Forty hours. That was roughly how long we'd been running on energy drinks, stale coffee, and adrenaline. The truck smelled of gun oil, wet wool, and three men who hadn't slept nearly enough. Nobody talked. There wasn't anything left to say until we saw what was waiting for us.

The logging spur was nothing more than an abandoned service road carved through the mountainside decades ago. Black mud swallowed most of the gravel, rotten timber bordered the track where old retaining walls had collapsed, and weeds pushed through everything that had once belonged to men with chainsaws and schedules.

It ended in a small clearing where loggers used to stack timber before hauling it down the mountain.

The truck rolled to a stop. Its headlights sliced through the fog in long white beams until they caught the flutter of yellow crime scene tape tied around a weather-beaten pine. Red and blue emergency lights pulsed through the mist, painting the surrounding trees in slow flashes that made the entire forest seem like it was breathing.

I climbed out before the engine had finished idling. The cold hit first. Then the smell. Burnt chemicals. Wet earth. Old blood. Underneath it all lingered something metallic that settled in the back of my throat and refused to leave. Not fresh.

Hours old.