Page 67 of Only the Hunter

And she doesn’t meet my eyes when she says it.

Evie clocks it too. I see it in the way her shoulders square.

“We’re leaving,” Evie says, polite but firm. “Thank you for your time.”

Outside, the cold feels like a correction, forcing us into our bundles once again as we walk.

Evie exhales hard once we’re clear of the building. “She recognized Lina’s name.”

“She reacted,” I say, agreeing.

“She didn’t deny she was here,” Evie adds. “She denied familiarity.”

Different things.

I scan the grounds. There’s a service road that disappears around the ridge. A utility shed. A secondary structure lower down the slope—older, less maintained.

“Another part of the facility?” Evie asks, following my gaze. “A residence?”

“Storage,” I say. “Or overflow.”

Evie swallows. “If Lina was here… If something happened to her⁠—”

“Let’s walk the perimeter.”

We weren’t escorted out. There’s no harm in looking.

We follow the tree line first, boots breaking through the crust where snow has drifted unevenly. The facility sits tucked into the hillside, deliberate in its positioning—visible from the station above, invisible from the valley below.

That’s when I see them.

Tracks.

Not fresh—filled in by last night’s snowfall, but still visible as shallow depressions. Two sets. One deeper, heavier. One lighter, uneven.

I stop.

Evie stops beside me, breath fogging. “What?”

I crouch, brushing away loose powder. The lighter track shows scuff marks. Dragging.

“Someone came this way,” I say. “Recently. Within the last day or two.”

Evie’s voice drops. “How can you tell?”

“Snow overnight was light. These are shallow but defined.” I stand, following the line with my eyes. “They lead away from the facility.”

Away. Not toward.

If they returned…they took a different track.

Evie follows my gaze. The tracks disappear into the trees, angling downslope toward the ridge.

“Let’s follow them,” she says.

I glance back at the facility. No one is visible at the windows. But there’s a camera at the entrance. Could be one in these trees. Or in the eaves of a building.

“Stay close,” I say.