Chapter 6
Miller leaned in, his glove scraping against my raw skin. “That’s not lacquer, Tom.”
Before I could speak—before the lie could form on my tongue—a sharp, crackling blast of static erupted from the radio clipped to Miller’s shoulder.
*“Unit Two, this is Dispatch. Miller, you copy?”*
Miller didn't let go of my wrist immediately. His grip remained tight, cold, the leather biting into my tendons. He held my gaze for three agonizing seconds before reaching up with his free hand to key the mic.
“Go ahead, Dispatch. I’m on site at the Vance property.”
*“We’ve got the search and rescue team rolling off the highway now. Three units from the volunteer fire department, plus Hank’s tracking hounds. They’re bringing two four-wheelers to sweep the southern ravine. Clara says Marcus might have fallen into the gorge if his lungs locked up.”*
Miller released my wrist.
“Ten-four,” he said into the radio. “Tell Hank to stage the hounds by the lower bridge. I want a line sweep moving north along the creek toward the ridge. We’ve got an abandoned vehicle and zero track confirmation on the road.”
*“Copy that, Unit Two. ETA four minutes.”*
Miller clicked the mic off. He wiped his nose with the back of his sleeve, looking past me toward the gravel apron where Marcus’s truck was still idling.
“Marcus had an attack, Tom,” Miller said, his tone shifting slightly, the weight of the county badge pressing into every syllable. “His lungs are paper-thin. If he was out in this frost without that red inhaler for more than twenty minutes, he’d be down on the ground, choking on his own tongue. He wouldn't have made it two hundred yards into the brush.”
“I know,” I whispered, forcing genuine horror into my voice—a horror that wasn't feigned, only redirected from the butchery inside to the search outside. “That’s why I told Clara to check the creek bed. If he got turned around in the dark, the wind would have driven him downhill.”
Miller looked down at the ground again.
This time, his eyes stopped on the dark, red-black stain soaking into the crushed limestone beside the porch.
He crouched down, his knees popping in the silence. He pulled his leather glove off with his teeth and touched the surface of the gravel with his bare forefinger.
The stone was damp, crusty with drying fluid.
He brought his finger to his nose.
I stopped breathing. The pulse in my neck thudded so violently I could feel it behind my eyes.
*He knows. He knows it’s blood. He’s going to stand up and pull the iron.*
Miller pulled his hand back, his brow furrowed in disgust. “What did you spill here, Tom? Smells like an iron pit.”
“The transmission on my John Deere blew a seal last Tuesday,” I said, the words spilling out of my mouth in a desperate, seamless torrent. “The hydraulic fluid leaked right where you’re kneeling. It’s Dexron fluid. Heavy iron additives. I threw sawdust over it, but the rain washed it down into the limestone.”
Miller stared at the red residue on his fingertip. He rubbed it slowly between his thumb and forefinger, feeling the tacky resistance of coagulated protein against the grit of the gravel dust.
His jaw tightened. The easy, neighborly skepticism hardened into pure, professional protocol.
“Dexron doesn’t clot, Tom,” Miller said, his voice dropping into a deadly, quiet register. “And it sure as hell doesn’t form a fibrinous skin when it hits freezing limestone.”
He reached into the left cargo pocket of his jacket, pulled out a small wire stake topped with a square of neon-pink surveyor’s flag, and drove it hard into the frozen gravel right beside the darkest pool of the stain.
Then he stood up, stepping backward toward the porch steps, his eyes locked on mine.
“Nobody touches this apron,” Miller commanded, his voice ringing with absolute authority. “Do not walk on this limestone. Do not step off that porch. This truck is an abandoned vehicle in a missing persons case, and this puddle is an active scene marker.”
“Miller, it’s tractor fluid—”
“Shut up,” he snapped, reaching back to unsnap the heavy flap of his duty belt. He pulled out a roll of black-and-yellow hazard tape and pointed a stiff finger directly at my chest. “You stay on that top porch board. Put your back against your front door. I’ve got presumptive blood test swabs and evidence seals in the back lockbox of the cruiser. I’m pulling the kit right now. If that chemical turns pink, Tom, this entire parcel goes under lock and key, and you’re going against the hood in irons.”
He turned on his heel, his heavy boots crunching hard toward the tailgate of his Expedition.
My breath locked in my chest.
*Presumptive blood swabs.*
A Kastle-Meyer test. Phenolphthalein. The second the reagent touched that stone, it would flash magenta. It wouldn't take ten seconds. The moment Miller swabbed the limestone, every lie dissolved. The house would be sealed, the warrants phoned in from the ridge, and Miller would kick the front door off its frame to search the crawlspace.
And then, from down by the hemlock line, the silence tore in two.
A piercing, ragged shriek cut through the fog—not a shout, but a woman’s throat tearing in primal, suffocating terror.
*“Miller! Help! The ice—God, Clara’s through the ice!”*
It was Hank’s voice, howling from the bottom of the ravine, stripped of all composure.
A sickening splash echoed up the gulley, followed by Clara’s muffled, hysterical gasps choking against freezing water.
*“Miller! She slid down the gorge wall! She’s caught in the culvert churn—get down here! Bring the tow rope!”*
Miller froze halfway to the tailgate of his cruiser.
He whipped his head toward the tree line, his flashlight beam slicing through the mist toward the roar of the swollen creek.
“Dispatch!” Miller screamed into his shoulder mic, his thumb jamming the button with frantic force. “Code Three! Emergency assistance at the southern culvert! Civilian in the water! Submerged in the creek run!”
He didn't wait for a response. Duty, instinct, and blood relation—Clara was his cousin’s wife, drowning eighty yards down an icy embankment—shattered his focus.
Miller spun toward me, his face pale, pointing the heavy beam of his flashlight into my eyes.
“Stay on that porch!” he roared, his voice cracking with urgency. “If you move an inch off that threshold, so help me God, Tom, I’ll charge you with obstruction of justice! Stay right there!”
He shoved the evidence tape into his pocket, drew his heavy Maglite, and sprinted down the driveway, his boots sliding wildly on the slush as he charged into the hemlocks toward the ravine.
“Clara! Hold on to the bank!” his voice drifted back through the fog, fading as he plunged down the steep, shale-strewn bank.
The yard was empty.
I had my window.
A minute. Maybe two. However long it took Miller and Hank to haul a shivering, hysterical woman out of waist-deep mountain runoff and drag her up the slope.
The moment Miller cleared that creek bed and marched back up the ridge, he would walk straight to the rear of his Expedition, grab the presumptive swab kit, and press the saturated cotton tip against the limestone beside the pink flag.
