Page 9 of Silent Prey

Mrs. Hayes's hands fidgeted nervously in her lap, her knuckles white as she wrestled with the decision. The room was veiled in a solemn silence.

“You really think it will help you find who did this?” Mrs. Hayes finally asked, her voice barely audible over the consuming silence. Her eyes flickered towards the box and back to Finn, seeking reassurance.

“It could,” Sheila said. “At the very least, it’s worth a try.”

Mrs. Hayes sighed heavily and nodded. “Alright then," she said, her voice thick with resignation. Without another word, she pulled the box toward herself and stared at it as if uncertain where to start.

“You know what?” she said suddenly. “It might be better if you go ahead and do this without me. Just…put everything back in the box when you’re done, would you?”

“Of course,” Sheila said. “Thank you.”

The older woman nodded and rose, clearing her throat as she left the room. Sheila and Finn exchanged a glance before turning their attention to the box.

The box itself was unremarkable—just a simple cardboard container that had probably once held reams of printer paper. But within its folds lay pieces of a life abruptly cut short. Photographs, letters, odds and ends that Amanda had deemed significant enough to keep. They approached the task with care, sifting through the belongings as gently as archaeologists would unearth centuries-old artifacts.

The first item that Sheila picked up was a photograph. It was a beautiful shot of Amanda standing in the middle of a dense forest, her eyes alight with joy and excitement. Her hair fell in soft waves around her face, and she wore a beaming smile that seemed to reflect the beauty of the nature around her.

Finn picked up an envelope with a faded stamp. He carefully unfolded the letter inside.

"Who's it from?" Sheila asked, glancing at him.

“Great-grandmother, by the look of it. Seems Amanda held onto the letter.”

Sheila turned her attention to a small stack of books, most of them worn classics. As she set them aside, however, she noticed that one of the books had no title on the spine. Opening it up, she found lines of handwritten notes in blue ink.

“I think it’s a journal,” she murmured. Finn immediately set down the letter he was holding and joined her. The journal was filled with Amanda's cursive handwriting, flowing across the pages, revealing a mind active with thoughts and dreams.

Finn glanced at Sheila as she turned the pages. “Any mention of anyone suspicious?”

“Nothing yet,” Sheila replied, her eyes skimming over the lines of text. “But there is something about a hunter…ah, there he is! Markus Webb. That must be the guy Mrs. Hayes mentioned Amanda talking about. Listen to this: ‘It seems like I’m always running into Markus on the island. He’s a friendly person, but sometimes he can be a little…strange. He’s always talking about death—how it's natural and beautiful, how we should embrace it, not fear it.’"

Finn frowned, a shadow passing over his features. "That's...unsettling."

“It gets worse,” Sheila said. “‘He showed me this video once: He’d caught a rabbit in a snare, and the rabbit was clearly injured. But instead of putting it out of its misery, he just watched it for a while, like it was a documentary. Like he just wanted to watch it suffer. I’d prefer to believe nobody can be that cruel, but when I look into his eyes…it seems to me that he’s capable of anything. Absolutely anything.’”

CHAPTER FOUR

The coyote is one of nature’s most successful survivors, the voice on the documentary said as the laptop showed a close-up of a coyote, its face alert with bright, intelligent eyes. Fierce and cunning, they will eat almost anything to survive.

The laptop was sitting on the dashboard, just out of reach of the baking sunlight streaming through the windshield. The man in the driver seat held a knife and a whetstone, and as he listened to the documentary he methodically honed the steel blade, each stroke of the whetstone punctuating the narrator's voice. The sight of the coyote on screen brought a thin, appreciative smile to his lips. There was something about the wild and savage spirit of such creatures that resonated with him.

He was a man of simple tastes. He didn't need much—just his camping gear, his weapons, and the solitude afforded by the sprawling wilderness of Antelope Island. The days he spent alone in these sweeping landscapes brought him peace, a serenity he could never find in the bustling city streets. It was here that he felt alive, in tune with nature, separated from the noise and suffocating confines of society.

As the coyote began to stalk a rabbit, the man glanced out the window to the Jetta parked just a short distance down the dirt path. The back window of the car was plastered with bumper stickers: "Reading is dreaming with open eyes," "Proud to be a bookworm," and a cartoon owl wearing glasses with the caption, "Who loves books?"

The man cracked a smile, amused. Everything about the car looked so safe, so…civilized. The man had the distinct impression that the owner of the car was a city dweller, someone who saw the wilderness as a tourist destination, not the raw, merciless, and beautiful entity it was. He could almost picture her: intelligent eyes behind thick glasses, hair tied back in a neat bun as she fumbled with a map, her delicate hands trembling as she tried to make sense of the wild expanse before her.

He liked them civilized. It made them more afraid, which in turn made stalking them that much more satisfying.

The coyote on the screen pounced, and the rabbit's desperate screeches were soon cut off. The man chuckled softly to himself, his knife gleaming wickedly in the hot Utah sun as he turned it back and forth.

Like the coyote, he would soon have his prey. All he had to do was wait—the woman had left her lunch in the car, after all, and it was nearly noon. She would be back for it.

Any minute now.

The crunch of stones beneath tires drew the man’s attention to the mirror, where he watched with unease as a truck bearing the insignia of the park service slowly rolled toward him. The truck stopped and the driver lowered his window, revealing a weathered face framed by graying hair. The man's eyes, though old, were sharp and wary. Friendly, but wary.

"Everything alright here?" the ranger asked.

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