The Things We Don't Bury.

CHAPTER 1: Old Bones, new cases

The sound of your name hit Elena like a shard of glass in her chest. She'd been standing in the corner of Clyde's Feed & Supply, flipping through the weekly inventory sheets, when she overheard two ranch hands talking near the front counter.

"...yeah, heard she's back in town. Drove in yesterday, I think. Saw her truck outside Miller's."

The second man whistled, low and knowing. "Been a long damn time."

Elena didn't move. Didn't look up. But her grip on the clipboard tightened, thumb pressing so hard into the paper it left a dent. She didn't need them to say your name again—she'd already heard it once, clear as a bell, and it was enough to rip her back to the day you left.

The air had been heavy with summer heat that day, and she'd stood at the edge of her driveway watching you pack your things. Neither of you had the right words. The ones she did manage came out wrong—cool, sharp, defensive. And then you were gone, your tail lights shrinking down the long stretch of highway until there was nothing left to see but dust and regret.

She closed her eyes now, pushing the memory back into the dark corner where it belonged. Don't start this, Mercer. Not now.

There were bigger things to think about. Always bigger things.

The day shifted forward. Somewhere across town, you sat in the corner booth of the Sable Creek Diner, staring into your seventh coffee refill since you'd walked in that morning. The caffeine barely touched you anymore—it was just something to hold in your hands, something to do while the minutes slipped past.

Sophie, the sheriff's dispatcher, slid into the booth across from you without asking. She studied you for a second, the faint smile on her face almost pitying. "You've been here all day," she said. "You're gonna start growing roots."

You arched a brow. "What's your point?"

"My point is... I think you could use something to do." She pulled a folded slip of paper from her pocket and slid it toward you. "Noise complaint out by the old Carson place. No one wants to waste a deputy on it. Figured you could take a look, keep your mind from turning to mush."

You sighed, drained the last bitter mouthful of coffee, and stood. "Fine. But if it's just kids shooting cans again, I'm billing you for the gas."

The Carson ranch had been abandoned for over a decade. The fire that gutted the main house left the land forgotten, the rest of the buildings slumping into the dirt. The road there rattled your truck's frame, the fences long since collapsed into the grass.

You stepped out into brittle silence, the kind that clung to your skin. The first thing you noticed wasn't the sound—it was the smell. A sour, metallic stench, sharp enough to curl in the back of your throat.

You followed it across the field, past the charred skeleton of the barn, until you came to a wall of stacked hay bales. Behind them, half-buried in the mud, was a scatter of bones.

Old bones.

Human.

You knew because of the shape—most of them weathered to a yellow-gray, but one unmistakable curve of a pelvis jutted up through the soil.

You crouched, scanning the dirt until something caught the fading light—a glint of metal half-hidden beneath the muck. You brushed the soil away with your fingers, and a belt emerged. Not just any belt.

In the center of the buckle, polished despite its years underground, was the crescent emblem you'd seen before. You didn't need more than a second to recognize it.

The Mercer Crescent.

The belt that had belonged to Sheriff Elena Mercer's father.

A man who, according to the official story, had died in a tragic house fire alongside his wife.

So why were his remains here?

You didn't even hesitate. There was only one place you could go.

Elena looked up when you stepped into her office. It was the first time you'd been face-to-face since you left. Her eyes gave nothing away, but her shoulders stiffened like she'd braced for impact.

"What is it?" she asked, her voice calm but taut.

You told her. About the bones. The smell. The belt. You set it on her desk, and for the briefest moment, her hand hovered over it like she wasn't sure if touching it would burn.

She didn't speak. She just grabbed her hat from the rack, walked past you, and said, "Show me."

The two of you stood over the remains in the dim light, the air thick with the scent of earth and something far older. She didn't move for a long time, eyes locked on the belt buckle lying in the mud.

"I'm sorry," you said finally, your voice quiet.

Her gaze didn't leave the ground. "Don't be sorry." A pause, then softer: "Just tell me who did this."

Later, she was alone in the diner. Same booth she'd used a hundred times before, but tonight the coffee was untouched. She stared at it like it might have answers, her mind looping over the way your voice had sounded when you said you were sorry.

The truth was, she'd been waiting for years to hear you say anything at all.

Her fingers tapped absently against the rim of the mug, the rest of her still as stone. She almost didn't notice when the door opened, but the sound of boots on the linoleum pulled her back.

You were standing there, not smiling, not asking if you could sit—just sliding into the seat across from her like no time had passed at all.

And for once, she didn't tell you to leave.