“You sure, Tom?” Marlene asked softly. “You’re sure it’s hers?”
He nodded. “Her name. Her badge number. First line’ll freeze your blood.”
They pulled into the sheriff’s lot where four-wheelers sat lined like hunting dogs—Burke’s, Tom’s, Scout’s, and the county quad. Rosie’s old blanket was folded on Scout’s passenger seat.
Inside, Burke met them near the bullpen, Tessa already unzipping a vest, Scout hauling on gloves.
Tom set the plastic-wrapped notebook on the table.
“Found this in my stand. Wedged in the fork of a branch.”
Burke carefully handled the leather beneath. He opened to the first page.
If you’re reading this, I’m alive—but he won’t let me leave until the story is finished. If you find this, don’t stop looking.
No one spoke. Tessa went still. Marlene pressed her knuckles to her mouth.
It wasn’t the whole story—just bait. Sara hadn’t walked that journal into a tree stand. Someone had carried it there.
Burke turned a page and let the words settle.
“He wanted it found.”
Tom’s fingers found the back of a chair.
“Everybody in Jackson County knows we go up that week. Same as clockwork. Been doing it since my daddy taught me the trail. He left it for me.”
Burke’s gaze slid to Scout.
“Gear up. We’re going back. Tessa—tell Jenkins to call for Ruger, extra fuel, evidence kits, flags, and cast sets. I want a clean track before that snow softens.”
“On it,” Tessa said.
They rode out in a loose convoy—Burke leading, Tom second, Scout on his Ranger, county on the tail. Engines thumped through the trees.
At the Grady cabin, the fire was still going in the fireplace. Marlene went in and set the kettle on.
“I’ll have hot coffee waiting when you get back.”
The Tree Stand
Tom led the way, rifle slung tight, his breath fogging in short bursts. There were no tracks but Tom’s.
Scout crouched first when they reached the stand. The rungs still bore clean arcs from Tom’s boots at dawn. Beside them, new prints cut deeper through the snow—long stride, even weight.
He brushed a glove over one, testing the edges.
“These weren’t here when you came up?”
Tom shook his head.
“No. Snow’s been steady since sunup. Whoever left ’em came through after I was here.”
Ruger angled low, nose close to the ground, white plumes curling from his muzzle.
“Let him work,” Scout said.
The shepherd moved east, fluid as shadow, down into a shallow draw that funneled toward an old logging road. The others followed, boots squeaking on crusted snow. Ruger stopped near a half-buried rut and pawed once, whining low.
