What Remains Unsaid

Chapter Six-Fractures

The days that followed blurred into one another. The town moved on, but the echoes hadn’t faded. Every café, every corner, every conversation carried Marcus Hale’s name like a whisper.

At the station, the energy changed. People smiled when they saw me, pats on the back, quiet congratulations. They called it closure. I called it fragile.

Lee was different, though. She didn’t smile much anymore.

She came into my office late one afternoon, a file tucked under her arm. The blinds were half-drawn, strips of gray light cutting across the desk.

“I’ve been going through the case notes again,” she said.

I leaned back in my chair. “Still can’t sleep?”

Her lips twitched. “Something like that.”

She opened the folder and slid a page toward me, a forensics report. “Look here,” she said, tapping a line with her finger. “The fingerprint match on the window frame, one of them was partial. It’s only a 60% probability match for Marcus.”

“That’s still within range,” I said.

“It is. But the partial was lifted under the newer print. Meaning it was older.”

I frowned, though inside my chest, something cold stirred. “You think it’s irrelevant. The house was shared.”

“Maybe,” she said. “But it means someone else could’ve been there after the first print was made. Someone who wiped down the rest of the glass.”

She paused, watching me. “Someone careful.”

I gave her a small smile. “You’re chasing ghosts again, Lee.”

“Maybe,” she murmured, though her gaze didn’t waver.

That evening, as I drove home, the sky was washed in deep violet. The countryside roads stretched empty, the sound of the tires soft against the wet gravel.

I passed Lydia’s old house, the police tape still clung to the gate like tattered skin. The windows were dark. The wind rattled through the dry trees, and for a moment, I saw her standing there in my mind’s eye, quiet, pale, her hair brushing her cheek like it always used to.

You shouldn’t have come back, she might’ve said.

I parked a little way off the road and stepped out. The air smelled of damp soil and leaves. From where I stood, the farmhouse looked distant, swallowed by the mist.

I lit a cigarette I didn’t need. The ember glowed faintly in the wind.

For the first time in weeks, guilt felt heavy again. Not the sharp kind, the slow, sinking kind, the kind that sits beneath your ribs and hums like an old wound.

Maybe Lee was right. Maybe I’d made it too perfect.

Back at the station the next morning, a message waited on my desk, a court notice. Marcus’s defense attorney had filed a motion to review the evidence, citing “possible procedural discrepancies.”

Lee was already at her computer when I arrived. “They’re pushing for re-testing the cloth,” she said without looking up.

“They won’t find anything new.”

She glanced at me. “Are you sure about that?”

Her tone wasn’t accusing. But it wasn’t trusting either.

“I followed procedure,” I said, maybe too quickly.

She gave a slow nod. “I know you did. Still, I’d like to recheck the storage logs. Just to be thorough.”

I forced a calm smile. “You never miss a thing, do you?”

“Not when something feels off,” she said.

By noon, I was in the evidence room. The shelves were lined with labeled boxes, the smell of dust and disinfectant thick in the air. I found the one marked HALE CASE – PRIMARY and opened it.

Everything was where it should be.

The torn cloth, sealed.

The phone records.

The photographs.

All perfectly arranged.

Still, I stood there longer than I needed to, staring at it. It was strange how something as small as a folded square of fabric could hold the weight of a life, or a lie.

Behind me, footsteps echoed.

Lee.

“I thought I might find you here,” she said quietly.

“Just checking the files,” I said.

She crossed her arms. “Alan… did you know Lydia personally?”

The question hit harder than expected. “Why would you ask that?”

“I went through the background files,” she continued. “There’s no mention of a direct connection. But there’s a photo, old case records from 2015, a town fundraiser. You were both there. Together.”

I turned to face her. “It was a small town event. I knew a lot of people.”

Her eyes softened, but they didn’t leave mine. “I’m not accusing you of anything. I just want the truth.”

“The truth,” I said evenly, “is that Marcus Hale killed his wife. The rest doesn’t matter.”

Lee didn’t answer. She just nodded slowly, then walked away.

But as she left, I saw it,the look of quiet disbelief, the seed of doubt taking root.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. The rain came in heavy, blurring the sound of the world outside. I sat by the window, watching the fields fade into gray.

Every lie has a heartbeat.

You can feel it if you stay still long enough.

Mine was slowing, but it was still there, steady, faint, alive.