Movement flickered to his left.
A squirrel shot from a fallen log and vanished up a pine.
He exhaled and lowered the rifle. His hands wouldn’t stop trembling.
He glanced over his shoulder, ready to bolt.
Instead, he fished for his phone.
He called 9-1-1, spinning the old knife in his pocket while the ringtone buzzed in his ear. It steadied him.
“Jackson County Dispatch.”
“9-1-1? This is Mike Stevens. I—I work at Catch My Draft in Sylva. I’m off Highway 73, a couple miles past the old quarry. I was out early, hunting, and I found… I found human remains.”
“I didn’t touch anything. I’m backing out now.”
“Stay put, Mr. Stevens. They’re on the way.”
He ended the call.
The woods went quiet.
No birds.
No wind.
Whatever peace he’d come for was gone.
Sheriff Burke Scott
Just after dawn, fog thickened over Miller’s Ridge as Burke eased the truck off Highway 73 and started the slow climb toward the ridge.
Dispatch’s words rode shotgun in the cab.
Human remains. Two miles north of Sara Parker’s last known location.
A sick feeling turned in his gut.
The truck’s engine labored as the road steepened, tires grinding over frozen ruts. Fog hugged the trees on either side, turning their black trunks into silhouettes that looked too much like people lined up along the ditch.
Deputy Scout Wilson
Scout rubbed a hand across his face, exhaustion fogging his thoughts. He hadn’t ignored that 2:47 a.m. call—he’d never heard it.
The missed call sat like a stone in his gut.
“Dispatch said human remains—that’s all?”
Burke nodded. “That’s it.” Then, quieter, “God help us if this is her.”
Scout didn’t answer right away. “Don’t—don’t say that yet.”
An old Ford pickup came into view, pulled crooked beside the treeline, hood silvered with dew.
“That’s Stevens’s truck,” Burke said.
Scout opened his door. “He came through alone. Tracks are clean.”
