Page 16 of Silent Prey

He considered backtracking and trying to pick up her trail again, but he worried that if he did so, he might lose more than just time. He could lose her completely—he couldn’t, after all, assume she would return to her car along the same route—and that was something Christopher simply wouldn't allow.

Speaking of her car, there was always the option of waiting in ambush for her. But the thought of returning to that dirt road made him uneasy. The ranger had been so suspicious, so damn nosy, that he might very well be lying in wait for Christopher.

And then the predator would become the prey.

No, better to press forward. He didn’t have the woman’s trail to follow, but he could get into her head, imagining where she might decide to have her little picnic. She would probably want to go somewhere with a view, preferably a view of the Great Salt Lake, he suspected.

There was a certain spot, a clearing overlooking the gleaming body of water, where hikers often flocked to enjoy lunch or merely bask in the warmth of the sun. Christopher had been there many times, silently watching as others reveled in their ignorance.

His gaze hardened as he began to move toward it. The path was familiar, worn into his mind like a groove in an old record. He moved swiftly but cautiously, his steps muted by years of practice. The scent was growing stronger now, an intoxicating aroma that drew him farther into the wilderness.

She was close. Despite the beating sun and the parched earth beneath his boots, a shiver of anticipation danced down Christopher's spine. His heart pounded in sync with the rhythm of his strides, each beat echoing the primal excitement of the hunt.

The clearing came into view far quicker than he expected. Nestled on an outcrop halfway up the grassy hillside, it was a green oasis in a sea of bleached gold. A lone pine tree offered respite from the scorching sun, its vast branches reaching out wide like Mother Nature's arms embracing her children. It was to this spot that hikers were naturally drawn, with its stunning overlook of the shimmering lake.

Christopher slowed his pace as he neared the clearing. A wave of heady anticipation washed over him. Rather than rushing into the clearing, however, he skirted around the edge. He couldn’t see the woman, but that was no surprise. She was probably on the other side of the tree—resting against it, perhaps, as she stared off across the lake.

Step by step, Christopher made his way around the edge of the clearing. Any moment now, he expected to see the red-haired woman. To his disappointment, however, he discovered there was nobody leaning against the tree.

The clearing was empty.

He ground his teeth in frustration and shifted the backpack again. As upsetting as it was that she wasn’t here, however, he knew she had been here—and not long ago at that. The aroma of her coconut sunscreen was still strong in the air, and a half-eaten apple lay on the grass, left as if in haste. Christopher bent down to pick it up, examining it closely. A smile crept onto his face. She had left in a hurry.

Maybe she'd even seen him approaching, and she'd gotten spooked.

He glanced around the grassy area again, taking note of the signs she'd unconsciously left behind. A slight indentation in the grass where she must have been sitting, a scrap of paper from a granola bar wrapper, the lingering aroma of her perfume... All signs that pointed to one thing—she was not far off.

His gaze swept across the rolling hills, eyes narrowing as they caught a flutter of movement near a cluster of scrub trees. His heart quickened. There, in the distance—something red.

Her hair.

Christopher didn't hesitate. He began to move, his long strides eating up the ground between him and his prey like a wolf closing in on a limping doe.

The wind shifted, carrying with it an increased intensity of coconut sunscreen, the scent trailing tantalizingly on the air. It was as if nature itself was guiding him toward the woman whose allure had ensnared his senses.

He didn't run, but walked with a deliberate, measured pace. His every sense was tuned into the world around him, savoring the crisp air and the taste of anticipation. His heart pounded in his chest like a tribal drum, dictating the rhythm of the hunt.

As he approached the scrub trees, however, his heart sank. Through the bushes, he saw nothing but a tumble of crimson wildflowers swaying gently in the midday breeze. It wasn't her hair. He let out a frustrated growl under his breath, his hands balling into fists as disappointment rushed through his veins like an ice-cold river.

Standing still for a moment, he closed his eyes, taking deep breaths to steady himself. Patience was the key here, not impulsive reactions. Panic and frustration wouldn't help him; they never had. He needed to think, to plan, to strategize.

His mind began churning over the details again. The half-eaten apple, the discarded sunscreen bottle, the clear signs of a rapid departure—it all suggested she'd been spooked by something.

Or someone.

Had she seen him coming? Had she recognized him, even from a distance?

Previously, the idea of her seeing him had thrilled him—he liked the fear his presence brought. But what if she eluded him? That pesky park ranger may have already filed a report about him, and now if this woman claimed he'd been stalking her…

Heat rose to Christopher’s face. He had to find this woman now—before she had the chance to get help.

He unfolded his clenched fists, taking another glance at the red flowers. They swayed innocently under the gaze of the midday sun, mocking him with their crimson beauty. Beyond these deceiving flowers lay more wilderness, untouched and undisturbed, potentially hiding the woman with the fiery hair.

A sense of urgency gripped him anew as he started toward the undergrowth. Every second was precious now. He needed to tread carefully yet quickly, for if she had indeed seen him earlier, she might have broken into a run. Or she could be hiding somewhere, waiting for him to pass by.

He had to stay sharp.

Just then, he noticed something along the path: a tuft of hair caught in the grip of a rose bush.

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