What Remains Unsaid

The phone rang just as the fog began to rise over the hills. I was halfway through my second cup of coffee, the kind that tastes more like rust than caffeine, when the sound cut through the silence of my small cottage. The clock on the wall read 2:47 a.m. Calls at that hour never brought good news.

“Detective Crowe,” I answered, my voice rough from sleep.

“Sir,” came the voice of Officer Grant from the station. “We’ve got a situation out by Miller’s Creek. A woman’s been found dead. It looks… bad.”

The line went quiet for a moment. I could hear the distant hum of radios on his end, and the soft rustle of papers.

“Who found her?” I asked.

“Neighbor. Said she heard shouting around midnight but didn’t check until she saw the front door open.”

I jotted the address down with a shaking hand. My first thought wasn’t about the crime, it was about who lived near Miller’s Creek. A faint ache stirred in my chest, one I hadn’t felt in years.

“Name of the victim?” I asked, though some part of me already knew.

There was hesitation. Then: “Lydia Marcus.”

The world seemed to narrow into a single point of sound — the quiet hum of the refrigerator, the whisper of the wind against the windowpane. Lydia. I hadn’t heard that name spoken to me in fifteen years.

I forced a breath through my teeth. “I’ll be there in twenty.”

When I arrived, two patrol cars were already there, lights flashing dimly against the mist. I parked behind them and stepped out, the cold air biting at my skin. Officer Grant met me halfway up the path, his face pale under the glow of his flashlight.

“She’s inside,” he said quietly. “Husband’s at the station. He’s the one who called after the neighbor found her.”

“Husband?” My voice sounded steadier than I felt. “Marcus?”

Grant nodded. “Yes, sir. Marcus Hale. Says he was out of town last night. Drove back early this morning when no one answered his calls.”

Marcus Hale. My oldest friend. Or at least, he used to be.

I’d known him since university, the kind of man everyone liked instantly. Calm, confident, good with words. He was the one who’d introduced me to Lydia back when she was still mine. The memory pressed at the back of my skull like an old bruise. I pushed it away.

She lay in the living room. Lydia.

Even in death, she looked untouched by time, her features still soft, her auburn hair spread like a halo against the rug. But the blood told a different story. A dark stain had spread beneath her, seeping into the fibers of the carpet.

I crouched beside her, my hand hovering above the floor. “Any signs of forced entry?”

“None,” said Grant. “Doors were unlocked. Windows closed. No valuables taken.”

I nodded slowly. “So whoever did this… she knew them.”

It was habit, the detective in me speaking. But beneath the professional calm, my thoughts tangled. I had imagined seeing her again a thousand times, but never like this.

There was a small frame on the coffee table, Lydia and Marcus on their wedding day. She was smiling, her hand resting gently on his chest. I felt something twist inside me.

“Bag that,” I said softly, standing up.

She stepped beside me, glancing down at Lydia. “Do you know her?”

I paused for just a second too long. “I’ve seen her around,” I lied. “Marcus and I crossed paths back in the day.”

She nodded, not pressing further. “It looks clean. No struggle, no sign of robbery. Whoever did this was careful.”

“Careful,” I repeated. The word echoed in my head.

We spent the next hour collecting samples, photos, anything that might tell the story of what happened here. But stories have a way of lying, of showing only what they want to be seen.

As the sun began to rise beyond the fog, I stepped outside. The air smelled of wet grass and ash. Across the field, the mist swirled around the old fence line, hiding everything beyond it.

Lee walked up beside me, her hands tucked into her coat pockets. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Maybe I have,” I murmured.

She studied me for a moment, then turned back toward the house. “Her husband’s coming in later for questioning. You want to handle it?”

I hesitated before answering. “Yeah,” I said. “I’ll handle it.”

As she walked away, I stayed there, staring into the fog. Fifteen years, and the past had found me again.

I thought I’d buried it, the heartbreak, the anger, the nights I spent wondering why she left. But as the first light of morning touched the field, I realized something simple and terrible.

Some things never stay buried.