1
CASSIDY
The memorial hits me two miles outside Briar Ridge.
Weathered wood staked into the shoulder, half-buried in wildflowers gone brown at tips of the petals. Someone's carved a name—Grady Nolan—but it's the gouges that stop my breath. Four parallel slashes, deep enough the splinters curl outward. Fresh daisies lean against the base, their petals still white.
I pull over. Gravel crunches under my tires.
The claw marks are too deliberate. Too clean. I've spent six years documenting predator behavior across three states, and defensive strikes don't look like this. I take three photos, check the metadata, and get back in the truck.
Briar Ridge announces itself with a faded population sign—842—and a main street that dead-ends at a mountain range so thick with pine it looks black. Two diners, one hardware store, a post office with peeling paint. The sheriff's station sits at the north end, squat brick with an American flag snapping in the wind.
I park and grab my field bag.
Inside smells like burnt coffee and old paper. A woman at the desk glances up, takes in my cargo pants and state wildlife jacket, and nods toward the hallway.
Sheriff Nolan Graves stands when I knock—mid-fifties, graying buzz cut, shoulders starting to round. His handshake is firm and brief.
"Dr. Ellis."
"Sheriff. Thanks for making time."
"Wish it was under better circumstances." He gestures to a chair. His desk is stacked with manila folders. "Coffee?"
"I'm good."
He slides a file across. "The autopsy came back this morning—we rushed the transport to Billings three days ago. State police have been processing the ridge since the discovery, but we finally got the hard data. Medical examiners out of Billings—she's seen her share of wildlife attacks. Says this one doesn't track."
I flip it open. The photos are clinical, well-lit. Grady Nolan, twenty-nine. What's left of his face tells the story.
"Crushing jaw trauma," I say. "Mandible fractured in three places. Bite pressure estimated at sixteen hundred PSI."
"That mean something to you?"
"Gray wolves top out around four hundred." I turn the photo, studying the wound pattern. "This is more than double. And the spacing's off—these canine impressions are too wide, too deep."
Graves leans back. "So we're looking at something bigger."
"Or something abnormal." I pull out my tablet, cross-reference the measurements. "Dire wolves went extinct eleven thousand years ago. Modern wolves don't get this big."
"You saying someone's breeding them?"
"I'm saying the data doesn't match known parameters." I meet his eyes. "Where was the body found?"
He pulls out a county map, taps a section shaded green. "Near the Blackmoore property line. State forest technically,but it butts right up against private land. Hiker went off-trail, probably trying to get a view of the ridge."
"Blackmoore."
"Old family. Own about fifteen thousand acres up the mountain. Keep to themselves, don't cause trouble." He folds his arms. "But folks around here know better than to push past their markers."
"Why?"
He doesn't answer right away.
"Stories," he finally says. "People go up there, they come back spooked. Or they don't come back at all."
"How many incidents?"
