“You’d make an excellent forensic investigator,” I said, thinking of the attention to detail required in my old job.
He glanced up, a hint of surprise in his expression. “That sounds like the voice of experience.”
I hadn’t meant to reveal so much, but somehow, kneeling in the dirt looking for clues with this careful, thorough male, it felt safe to let a piece of my truth slip out.
“Before I was a deputy, I worked in forensic accounting.” Not a complete lie. “Finding patterns in financial data, tracking inconsistencies, building cases against people who thought they were too clever to get caught.”
“And were they too clever?”
“No one is if someone’s looking close enough.” I moved along the fence line, focusing on my search rather than his perceptive gaze. “Everyone leaves traces. It’s just a matter of knowing where to look.”
“Riley.” His voice softened. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”
I stopped, my hand on the fence. “What do you mean?”
“I know a trained investigator when I see one. The way you assess rooms, how you interview witnesses, your awareness of exits and sight lines. That’s not something you pick up in basic police training.”
My heart thudded against my ribs. How much had he figured out? Was I so transparent, or was he just observant?
Before I could decide how to respond, Dungar called me over to the back corner of the enclosure. “Look at this.”
I joined him, crouching to see what he’d found. A small section of the fence had been carefully cut and then reattached with fine wire.
“Someone’s been inside.” I gently touched the cut edges. “Recently, too. The metal hasn’t had time to oxidize.”
“And look here.” He pointed to a faint impression in the soft earth inside the fence. “Boot print. Too large for a child, too small for an orc.”
“Human adult, then.”
“Yes.” His jaw tightened. “Not one of us. We use the gate.”
I studied the print, noting the distinctive tread pattern. “Hiking boot, good quality. Not what most tourists would wear for a day trip to a Wild West town.”
“No.” Dungar’s expression darkened. “It’s someone who came prepared.”
“For what, though?” I glanced at the frightened luminooks, still huddled together on the far side of the enclosure. “Why break into a pen full of glowing rodents?”
“I don’t know.” He stood, brushing off his hands. “But I intend to find out.”
We continued our search, moving from one enclosure to the next. Each pen showed similar signs, including carefully concealed entry points, minimal but distinctive footprints, and agitated luminooks. The systematic nature of it made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
“This wasn’t opportunistic,” I said as we examined the last enclosure. “Someone knew exactly what they were doing and took their time doing it.”
Dungar nodded. “Professional.”
The word hung between us, heavy with implication. Not tourists wandering where they shouldn’t. Not local kids causing mischief. People with unknown motives and the skills to avoid detection.
As we walked back toward the main gate, I found myself looking over my shoulder, a habit I’d thought I was breaking. The sense of being watched, of being hunted, came rushing back with nauseating familiarity.
“Are you alright?” Dungar asked, his hand sliding up to rest on my lower back.
“Fine.” The lie came automatically, a protective reflex.
“No, you’re not.” He stopped, turning to face me. “You recognize something about this, don’t you?”
The concern in his eyes broke something loose inside me. Here, surrounded by frightened creatures and evidence of methodical intrusion, my carefully constructed walls began to crumble.
“Not the specifics,” I said. “But the approach. The precision. The patience.” I took a deep breath. “It reminds me of what I was running from when I came here.”
