Page 53 of Easy, Tiger

"And if I can't say anything at all?"

"Then you stay alive long enough for me to find you anyway."

"And if you can't?"

"I will."

Something in the way I say it seems to satisfy her. She stands, brushing pine needles off her pants, and reviews the clearing like she's seeing it differently now.

"This is good," she says finally. "Knowing this stuff...it makes me feel less helpless."

That's when I realize what's happening. Halsey is actively growing into someone who stands beside me instead of behind me, becoming a partner in every sense of the word.

19

HALSEY

The library's archive room is thick with old paper and wood polish, an atmosphere that's become as familiar as my morning coffee over the past two days. Grace bustles around the main library, helping patrons and organizing returns, while I've claimed the corner table where historical conservation journals stretch across every available surface.

My sketchbook lies open beside a 1987 research report, and the pattern I've been pursuing becomes clearer with each comparison. The meticulous attention to detail that once made my career now serves a different purpose—mapping connections that shouldn't exist.

"Finding anything interesting back there?" Grace calls from the circulation desk, where she's checking in a stack of returned books.

"More than I expected," I call back, running my finger along a migration route marked in faded ink. "These researchers were thorough."

Too thorough, actually. The wildlife surveys from the past thirty years document tiger sightings with GPS coordinates and seasonal timing accurate enough to read like a roadmap. What they thought were unusual tiger populations moving through the region were actually shifter families following ancient migration routes.

Flipping to my own sketches from the past few weeks uncovers the locations where I've spotted wildlife along the trails Nolan guided me through. Even the creek where I found the wounded tiger has its own page, tucked near the back. Every mark I've made aligns with historical sightings documented by well-meaning researchers who had no idea they were cataloging shapeshifter movements.

"Grace, who has access to these archives?" I ask, grabbing another journal from the stack.

"Anyone doing legitimate research, really. University students, wildlife biologists." She appears in the doorway, adjusting her glasses. "We've had several over the years. Why?"

Three different reports spread across the table, each from a different decade, all marking identical migration corridors. "Review this pattern. Same routes, same seasonal timing, documented for thirty years."

Grace peers over my shoulder, interpreting the maps. "That's remarkable consistency for wild tigers. Usually territories shift with prey availability and human encroachment."

"Precisely. This follows an established path. This is tradition."

My pencil outlines the routes between reports, connecting dots that form a clear picture of how the hunter has been staying one step ahead. He focuses entirely on knowing where they have always gone rather than trailing individual tigers.

"Someone with hunting experience could use this information to predict exactly where to set up ambush points," I continue, opening a report from the early 2000s that documents the same paths in exacting, methodical detail.

"That's a grim way to approach wildlife research." Grace takes in my spread of maps, more curious than alarmed. "Anything I can help track down?"

"Actually, yes." I keep my tone light, casual, adopting the exact cadence I would use for any routine research question. "Has anyone come through here recently asking about this specific stuff? Migration corridors, seasonal timing, that kind of thing?"

Grace considers it, tapping her chin. "We get the occasional grad student. Why?"

"I’m curious who else finds this as fascinating as I do." I reach for the most recent bound collection on the table, a survey spanning several years in the early 2010s that should contain detailed seasonal observations. The binding feels loose as I open it, pages sliding unnaturally.

"This one's been tampered with," I say, examining the spine. "Look."

Grace examines the binding. "Huh. Several pages missing. That happens sometimes with older collections, though it's usually wear."

"These appear purposely cut," I say, discovering the gaps in the chronological sequence. Someone took specific sections, the ones covering late autumn migration patterns, the exact timeframe when the enclave would be most vulnerable during their winter relocation.

"Now that you mention it," Grace frowns, "I put a note in the system about the damage when it was returned. I even mailed a damage fee notice to the address on file, but it was returned to sender."