"This is the third mauling in six weeks. First was a camper. Second was a ranch hand who got too close to the tree line at dusk."
I write it down. "Same MO?"
"Close enough. Throat torn, excessive force. Medical examiner used the wordoverkillon the first two." He taps the file. "This one's different though. More public. Marcus was on a marked trail."
"Escalation."
"That's what I'm worried about." He grabs his jacket. "Crime scene's still active. State police have been out there since yesterday, but I figured you'd want a look before they clear it."
"I do."
The drive takes twenty minutes, winding up a forest service road that narrows the higher we climb. Graves drives. I watch the tree line thicken, shadows pooling deeper between trunks.
He parks near state police vehicles, their lights off but radios crackling. Yellow tape marks a perimeter thirty feet into the woods.
A trooper waves us through. Graves nods, then turns to me.
"Stay inside the tape. Don't touch anything the techs haven't cleared."
"Copy."
The forest swallows sound here. No birdsong, no rustle of underbrush. Just wind through the canopy and low voices ahead. I follow Graves down a narrow path, stepping over roots and moss-slick rocks.
The blood starts ten feet in.
Dried now, dark against pine needles. Drag marks score the soil, wide and erratic. I crouch, pull out my measuring tape.
"Paw prints." I stretch the tape across the largest impression. "Seven inches across. Maybe seven from heel to claw tip."
Graves crouches beside me. "How big?"
"Largest documented gray wolf print is five and a half inches. This is significantly bigger."
"Could it be a bear?"
"Wrong shape. Bears have five toes, visible claw marks offset from the pad. This is canine—four toes, symmetrical." I take three photos, then pull out my soil core sampler. "Depth suggests an animal over two hundred pounds. Maybe closer to two-fifty."
Graves swears under his breath.
I follow the prints toward the tree line, documenting each one. They're spaced wide—loping gait. Controlled. Not a chase.
The drag marks stop at a line of iron stakes, half-buried and rusted. Each one's topped with a faded sign:Private Land—No Trespassing.
"Blackmoore boundary," Graves says.
I stand, brushing dirt off my knees. The forest past the stakes looks darker. Thicker.
"Notice the branches?" I point to a pine just past the boundary. The branch is snapped clean, bark stripped away. "Six feet up. And there. Same height, same pattern."
"Could've been wind."
"Wind doesn't break branches at shoulder height in a straight line." I move along the perimeter, counting. Four more breaks, all within ten feet. All facing inward. "Something big moved through here. Something taller than any wolf I've documented."
"You're saying it came from their property."
"The evidence suggests that direction." I crouch again near the stakes. More prints here, layered. Fresh enough that moisture still beads in the deepest impressions. "These are from last night. Maybe early this morning."
A voice cuts through the trees. "Sheriff, we're wrapping up the grid search. Didn't find anything else."
