Wyatt nodded as he scanned the area. “You thinking we should look for shell casings?”
“They’re our best bet for finding answers.”
They retraced the angle the shots would have taken. Micah kept his eyes on the ground, scanning for anything that didn’t belong—disturbed leaves, boot prints, brass glinting in the fading light.
Thunder moved ahead, nose working methodically. Wyatt let him go, trusting the dog’s instincts.
Fifty yards away, Thunder stopped and sat.
Micah’s pulse kicked up. “He’s got something.”
They reached Thunder, and Wyatt crouched beside the dog and ran his hand over his head. “Good boy. Good boy.”
Micah knelt and pushed aside a clump of wet leaves.
There.
A shell casing. Brass. Still clean enough to catch the light.
He pulled a glove from his pocket, slipped it on, and carefully picked up the casing by the edges. Held it up to examine it.
Rifle round. If he had to guess, it was a .308. Common caliber. Nothing unusual about it—except that it had been fired at him and the Kings less than an hour ago.
“There’s another one.” Wyatt pointed a few feet away.
Micah secured the first casing before picking up the second.
Same caliber. Same condition.
Two shots. Two casings.
Whoever had fired them hadn’t bothered to police their brass. Either the shooter had been in a hurry to leave or he hadn’t cared.
Micah bagged the second casing and stood, scanning the area. Boot prints pressed into the soft ground—recent, deep enough to be clear. Size eleven or twelve, he estimated. Treaded sole like you’d find on work boots.
He pulled out his phone and took photos. The casings. The boot prints. The sight line back toward where he and the Kings had been standing.
Wyatt placed his hands on his hips as he remained on guard. “At least this gives us something.”
“It gives us probable cause.” Micah pocketed his phone. “Let’s go talk to your neighbors.”
They continued walking until they reached the Hendersons’ property. He stepped over a sagging wire marking their territory and kept going, Wyatt and Thunder close behind.
The garage came into view, and he took in more details.
The squat, metal-sided building was streaked with rust, the corrugated panels dented and peeling. The roll-up door hung halfway open. Empty beer cans and fast-food wrappers littered the ground near the entrance. No one was visible inside.
The house sat another fifty yards beyond, and a truck sat parked in the dirt driveway—red, older model, streaked with mud and primer patches.
Travis’s truck.
Micah’s jaw tightened.
They crossed the yard and climbed the three wooden steps to the porch. Micah knocked.
Footsteps sounded inside. Then the door opened.
Travis Henderson stood there, a gleam in his gaze.
Micah braced himself for whatever this conversation might hold.
