Page 33 of Silent Ritual

"What kind of signs?" Sheila asked, scanning the forest around them.

"Broken branches, footprints, discarded items. Anything out of the ordinary." He paused as they reached the halfway point of the bridge, looking down into the swirling, silver-lit waters below.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The only sounds were the rustling of trees in the wind and the distant hoot of an owl. Then Sheila turned to Finn.

“There’s something I don’t get,” she said. “All three of the other bodies were left in the salt flats, but this fourth one he leaves here, in a nearby campground. Why? The salt flats are remote, isolated. This location is risky, with potential witnesses all around."

Finn shrugged, his gaze still on the river. "Maybe he's getting sloppy. Or maybe he's changing up his game."

"But why?" Sheila pressed, feeling a chill ruffle her hair as the wind picked up speed.

"I don't know," Finn said, finally turning to face her. "We'll find out when we get our hands on him."

"As long as he doesn’t get his hands on us first," Sheila murmured under her breath.

Finn smiled grimly. "Over my dead body."

As they continued their way, the moon sank lower in the sky, the shadows grew darker, and the air turned colder. They tread carefully over fallen branches and slick leaves, their boots whispering against the underbrush, their flashlights bobbing through the darkness like ghostly lanterns. Sheila's heart pounded in her chest.

They broke through the trees, and across the river, Sheila could see the riverbank where she and Finn had been when they spotted the figure. She looked around, wondering exactly where he had been, and noticed impressions in the soft earth.

Boot prints.

The prints led into the forest, then disappeared in the undergrowth.

Finn followed her gaze and crouched, examining the marks. "He was here," he said, rising to his feet. "Let's see where he went."

They followed the tracks slowly, each step careful, each breath held in check. The forest closed in on them, trees towering overhead, their gnarled roots twisting and protruding from the ground like ancient skeletons.

Suddenly, Finn held up a hand. He tilted his head, listening. Sheila froze beside him, straining to hear over the pounding of her own heart.

A rustle. A snap of a twig.

They turned their flashlights in the direction of the sound and saw a vague silhouette darting between the trees, just barely discernible in the gloom of the forest.

"Let's go," Finn said, breaking into a sprint with Sheila close on his heels. The forest became a blur as they chased after the figure, dodging branches and leaping over fallen logs. The rush of adrenaline overpowered Sheila's fear, and her every muscle tensed in anticipation.

As they neared a narrow clearing, Sheila caught a flash of white—the telltale flick of a deer’s tail.

She slowed, disappointed. “Hold up,” she said. “That’s just a white tailed deer.”

Finn pulled up. “You sure?”

She nodded. “Pretty sure. Besides, look at the tracks.” She aimed her flashlight at the ground. There in the dirt were the cloven prints of a deer.

Finn shook his head and ran a hand through his hair, suddenly looking very tired. "Damn it," he muttered, the frustration clear in his voice. "So, what do we do now?"

Sheila shrugged, leaning against a tree. "We keep going," she said, forcing determination into her voice. "He's here somewhere. We can't stop now."

Finn sighed but nodded. “Which way do you want to go? We could—”

Before he could finish, both of their phones began to ring at once. Sheila answered her first. It was Dawson.

“I need you to get back to the campground right away,” he said, the urgency in his tone unmistakable.

“What is it?” Sheila asked, worried.

“Your killer must’ve doubled back across the river, because he just stole a ranger vehicle and fled the campground.”

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