Page 22 of Silent Prey

Lindell avoided her gaze. He shifted from one foot to the other, clearly agitated. But was he agitated because he was hiding something more or because he knew he'd dug a deep hole for himself?

“How’d you know she was murdered?” Finn asked. “Her body was found just hours ago.”

“I saw the ME driving in, so I took a little detour with my group. Heard it all from a ranger.” He shrugged. "What can I say? I'm a curious guy."

“You don’t seem very shaken up about it,” Sheila said.

"I already told you, there wasn't anything going on—nothing serious, anyway. We had fun while it lasted, but it ended. Life goes on.”

Sheila could only stare, shocked by his callous tone. How could anyone have so little compassion for another’s suffering?

“This tour,” Finn said, gesturing at the bus and the faces peering impatiently from the windows. “How long have you all been out here?”

“Since about noon. Four hours, give or take.”

Sheila did some mental calculations. Given the time Kaylee had called her friend, Toby Elwood, Lindell couldn’t be the murderer, not unless he’d managed to sneak away during the tour.

“And you were with the group the whole time?” Sheila asked.

Lindell nodded. “You can ask any of them—they’ll vouch for me. I've been with them, telling stories about the natural history of the island and pointing out local wildlife. I didn't even take a bathroom break."

Sheila shared another long look with Finn. His sandy hair was a mess from running his hands through it, a sure sign of his growing frustration.

“Well, we’re gonna need to speak with them,” Finn said.

“Not here. I need to get them back.”

Finn stared at him, not backing down. The silence lengthened.

Then the buzzing of Sheila's phone broke the moment. "Excuse me," she said, stepping away to answer the call. It was Dawson, her boss.

"What's up?" she asked.

"Got a tip about a suspicious fellow driving on one of the trails near where Kaylee Jensen was parked—within sight of her, actually. One of the rangers spoke with him, got a strange vibe."

That caused Sheila's heartbeat to kick up a notch. "What was the man's name? The man stopped by the ranger, I mean."

"Christopher Townsend. But get this: It's a fake identity."

CHAPTER TEN

Christopher watched the tour bus go by along the road, shuddering at the thought of being crammed inside that tin can with so many people—all those stupid, shallow people who saw this great wilderness as little more than an amusement park, a curiosity.

If they had their way, he thought, there’d be a vending machine every mile on every trail. Charging stations for their phones, too.

As the dust from the passing bus settled, Christopher adjusted his cap and returned his attention to the trio of women making their way deeper into the park, laughing and jostling one another. A warning voice in the back of Christopher’s head told him to back off—better to stalk his prey when she was alone—but the urge to hunt was too strong to be ignored.

So he adjusted his backpack and began following the trio.

He took great care to keep a safe distance and to remain unseen, blending with the shadows cast by the towering pine trees. His years of living in isolation on Antelope Island had taught him how to move quietly, how to avoid disturbing even a single leaf on the forest floor.

As he neared, he could make out their idle chatter. They were bantering about a guy named Mike, who appeared to have earned their ire. Christopher listened with disinterest, his focus entirely on their movements, the rhythm of their steps. It reminded him of a dance—a dance of life and death. His heart pounded in his chest at the thrill.

Up ahead, the trail forked. One path led down to the shore where the sunlight danced on the surface of the lake, the other climbed uphill into the darker recesses of woodland. The women paused, their laughter fading as they debated which path to take.

"We got time for a dip?" one asked.

"I don't think so," answered another. "Mike's probably waiting by now."

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