Scout followed with Luke Hale, keeping distance from the dogs’ rhythm, eyes scanning for anything that didn’t belong.
A broken twig.
A scuff in frost.
A piece of fabric caught on briars.
Anything.
They reached the creek bend again—same place as yesterday.
Rosie slowed, testing the air.
Jack’s voice carried up the slope. “Trail’s weakening.”
Down below, Jenkins raised a hand. “Same. Scent’s breaking in the current.”
Burke crouched beside the water, gloved fingers brushing the bank.
“No drag marks,” he said. “No churned dirt.”
Scout scanned the opposite side. “You think she crossed?”
Burke shook his head once. “No. Sara didn’t leave this ridge on her own.”
Jack steadied Rosie’s collar. The dog looked up at him, waiting.
“She gave us what there was to give,” Jack said.
Burke rose, eyes sweeping the tree line like he was trying to see through it.
“Mark it,” he said. “We start again. Tight grids.”
His voice dropped lower.
“We’re missing something—and it’s not the dogs.”
The team shifted.
Radios crackled.
Lines reset.
But even as the search moved, Scout felt it—the way the air had changed.
Not weather.
Not cold.
Something else.
Fear.
It was in the way people watched the woods too long.
In the way volunteers clutched their coffee cups like they needed something warm to keep from shaking.
Back at the command post, Burke was conferring with Mary Lou when Tommy Hensley edged closer to the tape, eyes darting, face too pale.
