Page 150 of Tis the Season to be Bullied

Only one way to find out.

Chapter 24

Nim

I don’t get much sleep Thursday night. My brain refuses to shut off, running through everything I learned, trying to make sense of it all, to find something to piece together. As soon as my morning classes are done, I sneak into the cafeteria, grab a sandwich, and head to the east wing.

Then I lock myself in the computer room and resume my snooping.

I call all the motels and short-term rentals in Cinderhart.None of them report any visitors going missing the weekend my parents died. Sure, they weren’t all that eager to speak to me, but when I told them I was looking for my dad and gave them the hunter’s description, they were quick to tell me no one like that had checked in.

Ugh. My first lead is a dead end.

I start doodling in the pocket-sized notebook I bought downstairs at the stationery supply kiosk, and then turn a page and start sketching the hunter’s face. It doesn’t help that there was a bandanna on his face, but I did get a look at his eyes. Idoubt it’s something I could take to Detective Thatcher, but I think it’s important to capture as much detail as I can.

I draw a picture of Boomer too. I never had animals growing up, so I wouldn’t even know what kind of dog he is, but maybe someone around here would know. He must be a specific breed because the other dogs that came into the clearing that day looked the same as him.

Is little Boomer okay? I have no idea what happened to him after Knox?—

I drum my pencil on Boomer’s sketch.

Knox must be really good with dogs. He just had to click his fingers, and little Boomer sat. And the puppy wasn’t scared of him like he was the hunter they killed. He wasexcitedto see Knox.

I drop my pencil.

KnoxknewBoomer. It wasn’t just a coincidence that the Serpents arrived with a pack of dogs...theymusthave known the pack.Andthe hunter they killed. That’s why he didn’t seem surprised to see them.

God, that doesn’t help me at all. Cinderhart is a small town—everyone in this place knows everyone else.

I groan and throw back my head, staring up at the ornately molded ceiling above me. The only leads I have left are the dogs. I go back to my notes. All I know about them is that they were obviously hunting dogs. Is that even enough to go on?

After a few minutes spent searching on the Internet, I come across the Cinderhart Hunting Association’s website. It has a ton of information about hunting seasons and what passes you can apply for, and regulations and stuff—most of which goes right over my head.

And then I see it.

There are a few random ads on the right-hand sidebar. One of them has a picture of a familiar-looking dog. A dog that looksexactly like Boomer will when he grows up. I frown when I see the website address: theplottthickens.com

At first I think it’s a typo, but once I’m on their website it makes more sense. Boomer, turns out, is a Plott hound. The people advertising on CHA’s website breed and train Plott hounds specifically for the purposes of bear hunting.

Was that what the hunter was doing? He seemed really pissed that Boomer was still scared of the sound of gunfire. Maybe he was murdered during a training session.

Poor little Boomer.

I hesitate, and then call the number. A cheery young woman answers with a bright, “Thank you for calling The Plott Thickens, how may I direct your call?”

“Hi…uh...” I glance around hurriedly, cursing myself for not working out what I was going to say before calling. “I’m...uh...working on a school project, and I was hoping you could give me some info about hunting dogs?”

“Yeah, of course. What would you like to know?”

Shit, what do I want to know?

“Is, uh, is it dangerous to train hunting dogs?”

“Dangerous?” the receptionist laughs. “Oh no, not at all.”

“But...you’re in a forest, right? Wild animals? Rifles?”

“Well, I mean...accidents do happen, obviously.” Gone is the cheery sound in her voice, and my heart starts beating just a little faster.

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