Page 59 of Easy, Tiger

"Luckiest man alive."

A sound outside makes me halt—branches snapping, too deliberate to be the wind. My tiger senses sharpen instantly, registering sounds and movements. Halsey catches my tension.

"What is it?"

"Probably nothing." But the prickle on my neck says otherwise. I slip from bed, tugging on jeans. "Going to check the windows."

Padding barefoot to the bedroom window, I peer through the glass into the dark forest beyond. Moonlight filters through bare branches, casting rippling shadows across the clearing. Nothing moves or stirs through the gaps around the frame.

But that feeling persists—the crawling suspicion that eyes are spying from the darkness.

"See anything?" Halsey asks behind me.

"No." I close the curtains anyway, shutting out the night. "Being cautious, that's all."

But as I return to bed, drawing her warm body back against mine, the unease lingers like smoke.

21

HALSEY

The tire tracks catch my attention first thing the next morning. Deep treads gouged into muddy earth beside the trailhead, where no vehicle should be parked overnight. Kneeling beside the impressions, I sketch the tread pattern in my field notebook out of habit.

"Aggressive all-terrain tires," I murmur, measuring the wheelbase with my thumb. "Heavy truck, maybe an SUV."

The tracks lead to a cluster of pine trees overlooking the trail junction. Broken branches at eye level suggest someone stood here for extended periods, spying, or even photographing, maybe. My mouth goes dry as I spot a cigarette butt ground into the pine needles—fresh enough that the filter retains its shape.

Pocketing the evidence, I head back toward town, mind racing. When I make it to Owen's ranger station, I've identified three more observation points along routes Nolan and I frequent.

"Someone's been playing photographer," I announce, tossing the cigarette butt onto Owen's desk. "And they're not interested in scenic vistas."

Owen peers toward Dave, who's filing paperwork at the next desk over. "Give us the room a minute?"

Dave raises an eyebrow but grabs his coffee and heads for the door without argument. Once it clicks shut, Owen turns back to me, sandy brows drawing together. "Where?"

Detailing the exact locations, I spread my sketches across his desk to back it up. "Same tire pattern at each location. Heavy vehicle, stationed for long-term surveillance."

"Professional setup?"

"Methodical, at least. Someone who knows how to stay hidden while maintaining clear sightlines." I tap the tread pattern drawing. "This isn't some weekend warrior with a camera phone."

Owen scrutinizes the sketches with a steely, predator-accustomed patience. "How long do you think they've been watching?"

"Hard to say. The tracks are fresher—maybe one or max two days old. But the broken branches suggest repeated visits over weeks."

"Nolan know about this yet?"

"I wanted to talk to you first. Before he goes into full protective mode and insists I hide in a bunker somewhere."

Owen's mouth quirks upward. "Smart. He does tend toward the dramatic when you're involved."

"So what do we do? Wait around to be photographed some more?"

"We get creative." Owen pulls out a topographical map, spreading it beside my sketches. "If someone's tracking your movements, we give them something to track."

Surveying the map, I note the familiar trails marked in red pencil. "False routes?"

"Exactly. We establish patterns that lead nowhere useful." His finger plots alternative paths through the forest. "Make them waste time and resources chasing ghosts."