Page 11 of In the Dark of the Past

“He was a decorated cop,” Atlas said.

“There’s no proof that anything happened. Everybody just thinks he took off to start over somewhere. But not knowing…” Eryn shook her head.

“I’m really sorry, Eryn.” The empathy fairly poured off River.

Eryn nodded. “I’ll recheck his files. I know there were some notes and clippings. If I find anything with teeth, I’ll let you know.”

“Do you remember his theory at all?” I asked.

“I remember he said it wasn’t about Eleanor. Said she found something big.”

“Big like…?” River pressed.

“I don’t speculate without data.” Eryn’s tone was final. “You get me decay rates, reconstructions, photos… Then, I can help. Until then, you’re the boots. I’ll dig.”

There was a long pause.

“You always were good at saying a lot while actually saying nothing,” Cade muttered.

Eryn raised a brow. “And you were always good at pretending you understood me.”

River looked between them. “Um… Should we give you two some space?”

“Please don’t,” Eryn and Cade said at the same time.

Libby cleared her throat. “It’s like a romantic reality show around here tonight,” she mumbled, then straightened in her chair. “Okay. We’ve all got our tasks. We’ll loop you in as soon as we know more, Eryn.”

“If you trip over any bones, call me first. Not the sheriff.” She threw me a wink.

“That’s a promise I can make,” River said.

“All right. Goodnight, then.” The screen went dark.

Silence reigned.

“She weirdly terrifies me,” Nivea said with a nervous chuckle. “But in, like, a really competent way. And I just can’t help but like her.”

“She’s brilliant,” Autumn added, sounding almost dreamy.

“And she’s definitely still into Cade,” Rand said under his breath, shooting Autumn a pointed look.

“Oh, shut it,” Cade muttered. But he was smiling.

Chapter Five

River

Maple Ridge mornings were deceptive. It was like they tricked you into thinking the world was calm and quiet before chaos inevitably showed up wearing a smile and carrying a file full of secrets. Oh, wait. That’s exactly what’d just happened to me upon my return to the so-called sleepy little town.

I’d spent the better part of the morning in my office with a mug full of lemongrass-ginger tea warming my hands, and the local police scanner playing faintly from my tablet. Libby’s playlist of, as she put it, “soothing but dramatic instrumentals” drifted through the air from my Bluetooth speaker, mostly cello-heavy pieces that made everything feel like a prelude to something I couldn’t yet name.

The bits of the Jenkins case file were splayed across my desk. I’d reviewed the notes three times already, marked them with color-coded tabs, scribbled marginalia, and tried—really tried—to make it all make sense. The profile was forming. The inconsistencies, the psychological motivators, the likely triggers…they were all aligning into something that looked plausible.

But something still refused to click into place.

There was a gap I couldn’t fill.

It wasn’t just the missing report or the vague phrases like “community pressure” and “HR interference.” It was the emotional timbre of it all. By all accounts, Eleanor Jenkins had been cautious but brave, outspoken but calculated. She’d made waves but not recklessly. And someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to make her vanish. Not just physically, but also narratively. That kind of erasure wasn’t panic. It was precision.