“She also told me this morning that sleeping with me was a mistake.”
Dylan winces. “Ouch.”
“Yeah.”
“Did she say why?”
I kick a loose stone off the path and watch it disappear into the ferns. “Because I’m a werewolf. Because we’re too different. Because she was scared and I was there, and apparently that’s the only reason she let me touch her.”
“You don’t believe that.”
“What I believe doesn’t matter. She made herself pretty clear.”
We round another bend in the trail, and something catches my attention. A flash of color through the trees that doesn’t belong. I hold up a hand to stop Dylan and point toward a small clearing about fifty yards off the main path.
“Is that—”
“The hiker’s camp,” I confirm. “Same one we spotted last week.”
“I figured they’d be long gone by now.”
“Apparently not.”
I move toward the clearing with Dylan close behind. The tent is still there, a small two-person model in dark green that blends with the surrounding foliage. A camping chair sits outside the entrance next to a portable stove and a cooler. Whoever set this up planned to stay a while.
“Should we call it in?” Dylan asks.
“Not yet.” I circle the tent slowly, taking in every detail. “I want to know who we’re dealing with first.”
“Connor, if this is her ex—”
“That’s exactly why I need to know.” I crouch by the tent’s zippered entrance and pull it open. “Keep watch. Let me know if anyone approaches.”
The inside of the tent is neat and organized. A sleeping bag lies rolled up against one wall, and a duffel bag sits in the corner with clothes spilling out of it. A battery-powered lantern hangs from the center pole, and a stack of maps and papers covers most of the floor space.
I pick up the closest map and study it. Someone has marked several locations with red circles—the clinic where Fern works, the Rusty Nail, and the path she takes to walk home in the evenings. My stomach turns as I realize what I’m looking at. This isn’t just a hiker passing through. This is surveillance.
A smaller piece of paper pokes out from under the map, and I tug it free.
My blood runs cold.
It’s a photograph of Fern. Not a recent one; she looks younger here, her hair longer and her smile brighter. She’s standing on a beach somewhere with her arm around a man whose face has been scratched out with something hard enough to tear through the paper.
I set the photo aside and keep searching. The duffel bag yields nothing interesting at first—just clothes, toiletries, and a first-aid kit. Then my fingers brush against something soft at the bottom.
Fabric. Lace.
I pull out a pair of underwear and bring them to my nose before I can think better of it. The scent hits me like a punch to the gut.
Fern.
These are hers. He took them from her. Kept them like some kind of trophy.
“Connor?” Dylan’s voice comes through the tent’s thin walls. “Everything okay in there?”
I shove the underwear back into the bag and zip it closed. My hands are shaking with rage, and I have to take several deep breaths before I trust myself to speak.
I crawl out of the tent and stand to face Dylan. “It’s him. Fern’s ex. This is his camp.”
