"I'll keep that under advisement."
Roy studies me a moment longer, then nods. "Your funeral." He tips his head and walks back toward the road, gravel crunching under his boots.
I watch until he's out of sight, then turn back to the tree line.
The light's already starting to fade.
I spend the next two hours hiking the perimeter, logging GPS coordinates every hundred yards. The terrain shifts fast here—soft soil near the road, rocky outcrops closer to the forest, dense underbrush that tangles at shin height. I sketch it as I go, marking elevation changes and natural choke points.
The pattern emerges within the first mile.
Attack site one: eastern edge, near a hiking trail. Attack site two: southern border, ranching land. Attack site three: northern access road. I plot them on my tablet, overlay topography, and the clustering is unmistakable. The predator isn't ranging wide—it's circling. Deliberate. Controlled.
I stop at the boundary stakes Graves showed me earlier. The iron's rusted but solid, driven deep. Beyond them, the forest looks darker. Thicker. The kind of quiet that presses against your ears.
I take three more photos, mark the coordinates, and head back.
By the time I reach the cabin, the sun's slipping behind the ridge. I spread my maps across the small table, overlay the attack data, and trace the pattern with my finger.
Tight clustering. All within two miles of the Blackmoore boundary. None deeper than a quarter mile into town. It's territorial behavior—but wolves don't operate like this. They follow prey migration, water sources, and denning sites. They don't circle human settlements unless something's forcing them out of their natural range.
Or unless they're protecting something.
I sit back, chewing the inside of my cheek.
The sun's almost gone now, just a sliver of orange bleeding through the pines. I glance at the window. The tree line's already lost to shadow.
If I wait until morning, I'll lose another day. Another chance for the pattern to shift. For the predator to move.
I stand, grab my pack, and start loading gear.
Headlamp. Night vision binoculars. Emergency beacon. Water purification tablets. Tent stakes and tarp. Bear spray—though if the autopsy photos are accurate, bear spray won't do much. I pack it anyway.
My satellite phone goes in last, fully charged.
I strap the pack on, adjust the weight, and test the headlamp. The beam cuts clean through the cabin, reflecting off the window glass.
Outside, the temperature's already dropping. I zip my jacket to the throat and lock the cabin door behind me.
The trail into the woods is narrow, barely visible in the failing light. I switch on the headlamp and follow it north, toward the boundary stakes.
The forest closes in fast.
No birdsong now. No wind. Just the crunch of my boots on pine needles and the steady rhythm of my breath. I keep theheadlamp low, sweeping side to side, watching for roots and deadfall.
The boundary stakes appear after twenty minutes, their rusted tops catching the light. I stop, pull out my GPS, and mark the location.
Beyond the stakes, the forest looks the same—but the air feels different. Heavier. Like stepping into a room where someone just stopped talking.
I set up camp thirty feet back from the line. Close enough to cross at first light, far enough to stay technically legal. The tarp goes up fast, staked low and tight. I don't bother with a fire—too visible, and I don't need the attention.
Instead, I sit on my pack, pull out the night vision binoculars, and scan the tree line.
Nothing moves.
I lower the binoculars, check my watch. Eight-fifteen. Sunrise is at six-forty. Ten hours.
I settle back against a tree trunk, arms folded, pack between my knees.
