“I’m going to take photos,” I tell him, voice low. “Just data.”
His fingers twitch faintly against the sheet.
Ciaran watches the motion like he expects it to become a threat.
I angle the camera and take the first shot. The flash is muted, but even that small burst of light makes Alden’s eyes narrow. I keep moving anyway, because hesitation wastes time and time is a luxury none of us have. I take a series of photographs from multiple angles, then shift to close-up lens settings.
The carved symbol sits centered above the sternum.
Four deep claw lines curve around it, their spacing precise enough to measure. The wounds vary slightly in depth, but the pressure pattern is consistent, suggesting one dominant hand and a controlled strike. My stomach tightens, not from gore, but from the intent behind it.
I pull out a small ruler and calipers.
“May I,” I ask Ansel, holding up the calipers.
Ansel nods once. “Carefully. He’s in a lot of pain.”
I measure the gouge length, then the spacing between the deepest points. I record each number in my notebook, careful tokeep my handwriting tight and legible. The cuts are deeper on the left side, which suggests the attacker favors one direction of movement.
My brain tries to treat it like a field study.
Ansel watches my hands. “You have done this before.”
“I have,” I reply. “Just not on a person.”
Alden’s jaw tightens at the word person.
I do not correct myself.
I finish the measurements and step back from the table. The injured wolf’s chest rises and falls beneath the wraps, the carved marks disappearing under linen again. The image stays in my mind anyway, sharp enough to replay.
Ciaran speaks quietly behind me. “What does it tell you?” His voice is controlled, but there is something rough under it.
I glance at him, then back at my notebook. “It tells me the attacker wanted him alive long enough to deliver a message.”
Ciaran’s eyes narrow. “I know that.”
“It tells me more,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “The spacing and depth match other marks I’ve found.”
Ansel’s brow lifts slightly. “Other marks?”
I unzip a side pocket and pull out printed photos from my earlier field notes. One shows bark carvings near a livestock kill, deep claw grooves raked into pine as if the tree was a canvas. Another shows the porch gouges at my rental cabin, long scratches carved into weathered wood.
Ciaran’s gaze drops to the photos.
The air shifts.
“These claw marks are similar.” I set the photos beside my fresh measurements and flip to the page where I recorded the porch gouge spacing. The numbers align within a small margin of error, consistent enough to make coincidence unlikely. The depth and curvature also match, the same dominant pressure on one side.
“I am confident it’s the same wolf,” I say.
Ciaran’s expression tightens, and the muscle in his jaw jumps once. He looks toward the table again, then away, like the idea of one consistent predator is worse than multiple unknowns.
Ansel folds his arms. “That narrows identity.”
I tuck my notes closer, then gesture to the photos. “Each kill has a purpose. Deer are staged by roads, livestock are killed near ridgelines, and a ranch dog is mutilated on a fence line.”
Ansel’s mouth tightens. “Provocation.”
