No movement. No groan. Not even a twitch.
Sinclair’s mouth tightened.
The fall hadn’t finished the job.
He straightened and listened.
A dog barked somewhere down the road. No doors opened. No lights snapped on.
Mountain country. Gunshots in December barely earned a glance.
Good.
He crossed toward the main house and rapped once on the back door. When Margot appeared, wide-eyed, he kept his voice even.
“Back your SUV up to the pool house. I need the cargo open.”
Her gaze flicked past him, toward the yard.
“Preston—”
“It’s fine,” he said smoothly. “Go.”
He would load Scout and take him to the smokehouse on his family’s hunting property — hundreds of acres of mountain and trees.
Out there, no one would hear a thing.
The same place Lauren had been laid to rest, until Sara dug into the past.
He watched Margot disappear down the hall.
Then he turned back toward the hedges.
Toward the broken body waiting for him in the dark.
Burke — Arrival
Minutes later, Burke’s truck came in too fast, tires spitting gravel as he swung into the drive.
Rosie was already snarling in the passenger seat, body vibrating with urgency.
Burke saw it immediately.
A man dragging a body toward an open SUV.
The man he’d hunted with.
The man who’d played poker.
Dragging Scout through the dew like trash.
Burke’s blood turned to ice.
“STOP!” he roared, gun up. “Sheriff’s Department! Hands up!”
Sinclair froze.
For one heartbeat, he stood there with Scout’s jacket fisted in his hand, Scout’s body half in the grass.
