A photograph—Sara and Scout Wilson, shoulders touching at a department cookout, both laughing, her head tipped toward him. Friendly.
It shouldn’t have mattered to her.
For some reason, it did.
It wasn’t the photo that snagged her.
It was how easy he looked beside her.
A memory flickered—Sara’s look at the Christmas-tree lighting last Thanksgiving. Jealousy. Quick. Unmistakable.
Tessa blinked hard, forcing herself back to the job. The warmth in Sara’s eyes struck something raw—something she’d learned long ago to keep buried beneath discipline and distance.
She’d started that way once — sleeping beside open files.
That’s how you burned out.
Box it up.
She almost replaced the photo—then noticed a sliver of paper wedged beneath the frame. She eased it free: a torn notebook page, Sara’s handwriting tight and slanted.
He’ll never see me that way. Maybe that’s for the best. Sometimes I wish he’d look at me and see more than a deputy with potential.
No name. It didn’t need one.
Tessa went still.
For a moment, instinct warred with something softer. She knew this kind of loneliness—how it stayed quiet under duty, then flared in private.
She let herself feel it just long enough for the ache to register.
Then she slid the note into an evidence sleeve, her hand steady as she sealed it.
She took one last look around—the mug, the files, the photo now bagged and tagged.
Whatever happened to you started with Lauren Pierce,she thought.Those bones weren’t random.
Someone wanted to make sure this stayed buried.
And maybe you with it.
A chill moved up her spine.
Tessa stepped into the hallway. The stairwell waited—narrow, dim.
Halfway down, a window reflected the interior light. For a heartbeat, she could’ve sworn a second figure stood beside her own—hair pulled back, a flash of a green notebook.
She stopped cold.
Blink.
Gone.
At the bottom step, she pulled out her phone. “Sheriff Scott.”
“I’ve got something,” she said. “Sara was working a cold case—Lauren Pierce. Notes, names, maps. And something else… personal.”
A pause.
