Instead—he pulled the file back toward him.
Vale, Clara.
He opened it again.
Same thin stack of paper. Same clipped summaries. Same conclusion.
Walkaway.
Burke flipped through slower this time.
The initial report. Missing person. Filed by Sam Talley.
Follow-up. Search conducted. Area canvassed. No evidence of struggle. No signs of foul play.
He leaned back, eyes narrowing.
Too clean.
He tapped the edge of the file once, then reached for the back page.
Names. Interviewed parties.
He skimmed.
Talley. A couple of hands from the livestock barn. Local business owners.
Then—his eyes stopped.
Hollis, Wade.
Burke went still.
Read it again.
Hollis, Wade.
A small prickle crept up the back of his neck.
That didn’t fit.
Not for a woman who supposedly packed up and walked out.
He flipped back a page. Then forward again.
Same name. Same ridge. Same piece of land.
Burke exhaled slowly.
“Alright,” he muttered. “Let’s see what you actually gave me.”
He pushed back from his desk and headed for the back room.
The evidence room smelled like dust and old cardboard.
Shelves lined the walls, boxes stacked and labeled in faded ink—years of things that had mattered once and, for one reason or another, still did.
Burke ran a hand along the row until he found it.
