He moved toward a thick pine.
She followed.
The trunk bore a fresh wound—bark torn open, pale wood exposed beneath.
Scout leaned closer.
He pulled the pocketknife from his coat and flicked it open. Careful. Patient.
Something metallic flashed beneath the torn bark.
He eased it free.
A mangled bullet slid into his palm, copper jacket peeled back.
“.308,” he said quietly. “Rifle.”
Tessa stepped closer, eyes tracking the line of fire through the trees.
“Close.”
“And steady.”
He photographed it, logged coordinates, sealed it in an evidence bag.
Scout pulled his radio from his jacket.
“Burke. Wilson.”
Static. Then Burke’s voice: “Go ahead.”
“Snow’s too deep for casings. Recovered a deformed .308 from a pine. Logged coordinates.”
A pause.
“Copy,” Burke said. “Good work. Bring it in.”
Scout clipped the radio back onto his jacket.
Snow began drifting again, soft and quiet.
For a second, neither of them spoke.
She drew in a slow breath.
“About Kyle?—”
“You don’t owe me anything,” he said, still watching the ridge.
Something flickered in her eyes. “I wasn’t offering.”
That landed.
He sealed the bag and slid it into his coat.
“Good.”
The word wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t kind either.
