“People forget cases like that,” he said. “They move on. Tell themselves they couldn’t have done anything more.”
“Then something like this comes along and reminds ’em. Pulls all the old ghosts out. Makes ’em nervous.”
“Nervous how?” Burke asked.
“Some folks are afraid of the truth finally coming out,” Burton said. “Others are afraid they’ll find out it never will.”
Burke stood slowly, his knees popping in the quiet.
“So the flyers, the flowers… somebody kept cleaning up anything that reminded people she was missing.”
Burton nodded, staring into his tea as if the answers were at the bottom of the glass.
“Exactly. And you tell me, son—who benefits more from a clean slate? A man who’s innocent, or a man who’s patient?”
Burke didn’t answer. He looked out over the darkening fields toward where Mercer’s new development was carving scars into the hillside.
The podcasts had stirred the water. But it was the silt at the bottom—eight years of silence and shredded paper—that was finally starting to rise.
He started toward his truck.
“Burke,” his father called out.
He stopped, hand on the door.
“Watch your back with that Harper woman,” Burton said, his voice barely carrying over the crickets. “She knows how to win. But in this county, winning isn’t the same thing as surviving.”
Burke looked back toward town, toward the lights of Sylva beginning to glow below the ridge.
For the first time, the case didn’t feel old.
It felt awake.
26
The Italian Bistro
The restaurant sat halfway down a narrow back street most people in Sylva walked past without noticing—a small brick building with amber light spilling through the windows and the scent of garlic and fresh bread drifting into the night air.
Reid opened the door for her.
“After you.”
Eleanor stepped inside and glanced around.
Soft music played near the bar—something light and jazzy. A chalkboard menu hung on the exposed brick wall. The clink of plates, the low hum of conversation, the smell of tomatoes and basil and butter wrapped around her.
Casual. Cozy. More trattoria than white-tablecloth. Not like the place they’d gone the other night.
Lovely, yes—but this felt easier.
Near the front, a familiar voice carried across the room.
“Reid.”
Sheriff Burke Scott stood from a corner table, napkin in hand. Across from him, Caitlin rose as well, setting down her wineglass.
Eleanor felt a quick flicker of self-consciousness.
