Thinking.
Then, he reached for the Hollis statement again.
Eyes narrowing this time.
Not reading it as a form.
Reading it as a man.
A small, familiar unease settled in him.
Burke closed the box halfway.
Straightened.
Might as well ask Dad.
All at once, the almost thirty-year-old file stopped feeling buried.
It felt awake.
18
Scott House — Late Morning
The drive out felt like it always had.
Same stretch of road. Same fences running the line of the pasture. Same bend where the trees opened up enough to see the ridge beyond.
Burke parked beside his dad’s truck and killed the engine.
He just sat there.
Then grabbed the file and got out.
Burton was out back, exactly where he usually was this time of day—half under the hood of the old truck, tools spread across the bench like he’d started something and hadn’t quite decided if he was finishing it.
“Morning,” Burke called.
Burton didn’t look up right away. “You break something?”
“Not yet.”
That earned him a quiet laugh.
Burke stepped up beside the workbench, setting the file down but not opening it.
“I was going through some old stuff this morning,” he said.
Burton tightened something under the hood, then reached for a rag. “Sounds like a you problem.”
“Clara Vale,” Burke said.
That got him.
Then Burton straightened, wiping his hands.
“Yeah,” he said. “That was a long time ago.”
