CHAPTER FOUR: The Rich Boy
The woods always knew how to keep a secret.
Thick pine. Heavy shadows. Twigs underfoot that snapped too late to matter. By the time anyone heard, it was already done.
The body had been lying there for hours. Maybe longer.
Jordan Langston stood six feet away, knees locked, arms at his sides, his shirt bloodied down the right sleeve. A crimson splash dried across his collar like a handprint no one could explain.
His face was blank. Pale. Not scared—empty.
Sheriff Mason stood to the side, muttering into his radio. A deputy threw up behind a tree.
Noah had been driving back from the sheriff’s office when he saw the second set of flashing lights. Something in him said to follow.
Now he stood at the edge of the clearing, hands in his pockets, watching a crime scene unfold like something out of a script.
“Who called it in?” Noah asked.
Mason didn’t look at him. “No comment.”
“Is that... blood?”
“You think it’s ketchup?”
Noah ignored the jab. “Is he injured?”
“No. That’s not his blood.”
Jordan blinked, slowly.
“Where’s the weapon?”
“No weapon found.”
“Then what the hell happened here?”
Mason sighed. “Kid says he was out for a walk. Tripped over the body.”
Noah frowned. “People don’t just walk through the woods at night.”
“Rich boys do. When they don’t want to be seen.”
They both looked at Jordan.
His gaze hadn’t moved. It stayed fixed on the boy on the ground.
A classmate.
Face down. Jeans torn at the knee. One shoe missing.
Noah stepped forward. “You get a name?”
Mason flipped his notepad. “Zachary Price. Seventeen. Junior. Same school as Jordan.”
“Cause of death?”
“Gunshot. Point blank.”
“Gun?”
“Gone.”
Noah ran a hand through his hair. “And the only person here is—”
“Langston.”
Mason turned and said it low enough that no one else could hear.
“He’s protected.”
Noah’s jaw clenched. “That’s not how the law works.”
Mason smiled like it was a private joke. “It is in Bellview.”
At the station, Jordan sat in the interview room, untouched.
No cuffs. No bruises. Not even a scratch.
A lawyer paced beside him—suit too expensive for this zip code.
Mason folded his arms at the door. “You want to sit in?”
Noah nodded. “I want to hear what he says.”
“You won’t like it.”
Inside, the lawyer turned, smiling politely.
“Noah Keene,” he said. “Heard of you.”
“Wish I could say the same.”
“This is a courtesy statement only,” the man continued. “My client isn’t under arrest, nor is he being charged. He's cooperating out of goodwill.”
Jordan didn’t react. He just stared at the table, fingers picking at the seam in his jeans.
Mason started the recorder. “State your name.”
“Jordan Langston.”
“Age?”
“Eighteen.”
“Where were you tonight?”
“I went for a walk.”
“Where?”
“The woods. Behind Langston Estates.”
“That’s your family’s property?”
“Yes.”
“You knew Zachary Price?”
“Yes.”
“How well?”
Jordan hesitated. “We had classes together.”
“Were you friends?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Jordan looked up. For a second, something flickered behind his eyes. “He talked too much.”
Noah shifted in his seat. “About what?”
Jordan didn’t answer.
Mason leaned in. “Did you see who shot him?”
“No.”
“Did you touch him?”
“No.”
“Then how did his blood get on your sleeve?”
Silence.
“Mr. Langston,” the lawyer said gently. “You don’t have to answer that.”
Jordan blinked again.
“I fell.”
“On him?” Noah asked.
“Close enough.”
“Did you check if he was alive?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Jordan looked at Noah, expressionless.
“Because he wasn’t.”
Outside the room, Mason exhaled. “He’s lying.”
“Obviously.”
“But it doesn’t matter.”
“Why not?”
“Because by morning, that lawyer’s gonna bury this.”
Noah leaned against the wall, watching Jordan through the glass. “He didn’t even flinch. He looked at that body like it was trash.”
Mason nodded. “You ever seen a clean killer before?”
“I’ve seen enough to know when someone’s hiding something.”
“Then buckle up, counselor.”
Back at the motel, Noah dropped his keys on the dresser and sat at the edge of the bed. The air was stale, heavy. His thoughts louder than the old fan humming near the window.
Two boys.
Two scenes.
Isaiah, arrested in daylight, dragged out like a dog.
Jordan, sitting with a lawyer and walking free.
Same town. Same night. Different rules.
Noah reached into his suitcase and pulled out the manila folder he hadn’t opened in weeks. His father’s last case file. Or at least, what was left of it.
Pages were torn. Names redacted. Notes scrawled in the margins like madness.
But one name was circled.
Langston.
Noah stared at it. The circle had been drawn over and over again, as if James had been trying to dig through the paper.
He flipped the page.
And there it was, in his father’s handwriting:
“Carter saw something that night. They covered it with fire. And Langston helped.”
Noah sat back, the words burning into him.
Isaiah. Jordan. Carter.
The fire hadn’t started last night.
It started years ago.
And it was still burning.