Two leaders walked toward the courthouse doors while the town held its breath.
9
Special Agent Tessa Quinn — Sara’s Apartment Main Street, Sylva — Morning
The hardware store on Main Street had been there longer than anyone could remember—its red-brick face worn smooth by time. The outside stairwell hugged the left wall, a narrow climb darkened by age and grit.
A train whistle cut through the morning, echoing up the stairwell. Tessa paused at the top, the mountain air cool against her skin.
At the landing, four apartment doors faced each other across a short interior hall. Deputy Jenkins waited by the far one, the crime-scene tape already cut.
“Unit Four,” he said. “Keys are on the hook inside. We cleared for entry.”
Tessa nodded. “Thanks, Jenkins.”
The apartment was small but full of life—warm paint, woven blankets, a half-read paperback on the arm of the sofa. Light filtered through lace curtains onto a tidy kitchen table beneath the frontwindow. From here, Sara would’ve had a clear view of Main Street—the Blue Ridge rising beyond.
Tessa stopped just inside the door, letting the air settle. She believed rooms spoke when you gave them time to breathe.
A coffee mug sat beside the sink, lipstick faint on the rim. A jacket hung on the back of a chair.
Camera clicking softly, Tessa made a slow circuit. The place felt still, as if it hadn’t yet realized its owner was gone.
On the table sat a neat stack of folders, one on top labeled in Sara’s looping handwriting:
PIERCE, LAUREN — Missing Person
Beside it lay a printed campus map marked with circles around the Humanities Building, Athletics Office, and Admin Lot. A yellow sticky note in the margin read:Prof. Raines — follow-up?
Tessa brushed her fingers along the folder’s edge.
“So this is what you were working on,” she murmured.
A second sticky note clung to the corner of the map, written in Sara’s block letters:
PREGNANT?
Tessa’s pulse tripped.
Lauren the missing woman… or Sara?
She forced the thought away. There’d be time for that later. Focus. Facts.
She flipped the folder open. Beneath sketches of timelines and initials, Sara had written:
Keller — short temper
Benton — lies easily
Sinclair — watch the eyes
Tessa photographed each page, then returned the pad to its place.
The bedroom was equally neat—uniform folded sharp, a blanket folded tight across the bed. A throw pillow at the headboard readTar Heels.
Something pale peeked from beneath it.
She lifted the pillow carefully.
