Page 135 of Silent Shadows

Behind us, Maya coughs.

Taylor says, “You’re not not a klutz. I swear you’ve fallen on every hike so far.”

Daisy gasps. “Betrayal.”

“You almost lost a boot ten seconds ago.”

“The boot and I are working through some things.”

Owen passes us with the calm brutality of a man unaffected by discomfort. “Less talking. More walking.”

Daisy watches him go. “Is he always like that?”

“Yes,” I say.

Owen calls back, “Worse, usually.”

We push deeper.

The drainage ditch cuts through the seam where the desert meets the forest, a shallow scar etched into the earth. Most of the year it's bone dry—just sand, scattered rocks, and rabbitbrush clinging to the banks. Then the monsoons come. They rip through here with enough force to rearrange the landscape before disappearing as quickly as they arrived. The floodwater is gone, but it leaves behind churned mud, snapped branches, and debris tangled in the brush.

Branches rake across our packs as we pick our way through the wash. The mud turns darker, slick enough that Taylor tests each step with her trekking pole before trusting it.

Then Maya stops.

“Tracks.”

Everyone freezes.

She crouches near the edge of a shallow puddle, careful not to disturb the bank. Taylor moves beside her. I step in after them.

My pulse changes.

There, pressed into the sandy mud, is a partial impression. The heel is deep, toes distorted by runoff, the arch almost nonexistent. It points toward the drainage, angled away from the easier terrain.

I crouch. The world seems to hold still. This is why we’re here.

This exact moment. Mud under my knees. Breath locked in my chest. Evidence in front of me that refuses to be easily dismissed.

Daisy kneels beside me, recorder already in hand. She says nothing. Just starts recording.

I measure the print. Taylor photographs it with scale markers. Maya collects soil from the edge. Jax gets wide establishing shots and drone footage where the canopy allows it.

For ten minutes, we are a machine. Focused. Quiet. Competent.

Then Owen says, “We’ve got another problem.”

I look up. He’s twenty feet ahead, standing near a cluster of broken branches—no, cut brush. My stomach tightens. I move toward him, careful with my footing, and see it immediately.

Someone cleared a path through here. Recently. Not much. Just enough to move equipment through without snagging. Beside a fallen log, half-buried in mud, is a boot print.

Human. Heavy tread. Not ours.

Taylor swears under her breath.

Jax lowers his camera. “Grant?”

“Probably,” I say.