Graves nods at the trooper, then looks back at me. "What do you need?"
"Access to the previous attack sites. Witness statements if you have them. Somewhere to set up base—close to the tree line."
"There's a cabin for rent just out of town. Backs up to the forest." He pulls out his phone. "Lady who owns it is a friend. I'll make a call."
"I appreciate it."
He pockets the phone, glances past me toward the boundary stakes. "You're gonna push into Blackmoore land, aren't you."
It's not a question.
"If the pattern suggests the predator's denning there, yes."
"Dr. Ellis?—"
"I'm not asking permission, Sheriff. I'm telling you what the investigation requires." I meet his eyes. "Three people are dead. If this animal's territory includes private land, that's where I need to be."
He doesn't argue. Just shakes his head and starts back toward the cruiser.
I stay a moment longer, studying the tree line. Somewhere deep in those woods, something is watching.
I take one last photo and follow Graves out.
The cabin sits away from the main road and everything—town behind me, forest ahead, and a gravel drive that's more pothole than road. It's small, functional. A main living space anchored by a woodstove, with a small partitioned study tucked into the back corner. A kitchenette that's seen better decades, and windows that face the tree line. Perfect.
I'm unloading field equipment when boots crunch on gravel behind me.
"You the biologist?"
I turn. The man's sixty, maybe older, with a weathered face and Carhartt jacket stained at the elbows. He carries a canvas bag slung over one shoulder, heavy enough it pulls at the strap.
"Dr. Ellis." I set down my case. "Cassidy."
"Roy Pritchard. I own the property two miles west." He nods toward the forest. "Got traps set out here. Mostly coyote, some fox. You planning on hiking?"
"That's the job."
"Then stay on the trails. Some of my traps are camouflaged pretty good—you step wrong, you'll know it." He shifts the bag higher. "Just a courtesy heads-up."
"Noted. Thank you."
He doesn't leave. Just stands there, eyes drifting past me toward the mountains.
I follow his gaze. The tree line rises dark against the fading afternoon light, dense enough I can't see more than twenty feet in.
"You looking at Blackmoore land?" he asks.
"I’m considering it."
"Don't."
I turn back to him. "Why?"
"People go up there, they come back different." His voice is flat. Matter-of-fact. "If they come back at all."
It's the second time I've heard that today. "Different how?"
He shrugs. "Spooked. Won't talk about what they saw. One guy—logger, worked these mountains his whole life—went up there on a dare five years back. Came down two days later, wouldn't go near the woods again. Sold his equipment, moved to Billings." He meets my eyes. "Whatever's up there, it doesn't want company."
