Izzy jumped.
Grant’s gaze flicked automatically toward the sound.
Watchful.
Instantly alert.
Then back to her.
“I grew up around him,” Grant said quietly. “And even back then, he always seemed like a man missing half his life.
“That’s not good enough,” Caitlin said suddenly, her voice low but firm. “Not for her. Not for what she left behind.”
Izzy nodded, grateful for the echo. “She deserves more than a line in a file that says ‘walkaway.’ We know what this work is. We know what she felt for him.” She looked between Burke and Grant. “We can’t let that stay a question mark.”
Burke’s expression shifted, something wary and resigned all at once.
“You two planning on making my life difficult?” he asked.
“Absolutely,” Caitlin said.
Izzy managed a small, sharp smile. “Consider it a professional obligation.”
Burke glanced at Grant, then back at the women.
“I’ll see what else I can dig up,” he said at last. “Old reports. Anyone still around who remembers more than what’s on paper.”
Some of the tightness in Izzy eased.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
She looked back out at the dark line of the ridge.
And suddenly, the beautiful valley surrounding them didn’t feel quite so beautiful anymore.
It felt like a story with no ending.
And one they weren’t going to be able to walk away from.
17
Jackson County Sheriff’s Office — Monday, Midmorning
Mondays usually came in loud—phones ringing, deputies in and out, somebody mad about something that didn’t matter by noon.
Today—not so much.
Burke sat at his desk, one boot hooked on the rung of his chair, a half-finished cup of coffee cooling beside his elbow. The morning calls had already come and gone. A noise complaint. A minor fender bender. Paperwork wrapped, reports filed.
The wall-mounted TV in the corner bled low sound into the quiet—regional news out of Asheville.
“…state officials warning about a new high-purity methamphetamine variant in western counties. Street name ‘Ghost Ice’—so-called for how cleanly it hits and how fast it disappears into small communities…”
Burke glanced toward the screen, watched the anchor’s serious face for a beat, then looked back at his coffee.
“Last damn thing we need,” he muttered. “Another fancy poison with a cute name.”
He should’ve moved on.
