Page 30 of Protector of Talon Mountain

I take photos of everything, glove the evidence, and slide it all into my pack. Then I circle the shack again. That’s when I find the tire tracks. They weren’t here last time—not clearly. Snow disguised them. But now the earth’s softer, and I can see the full impression of the treads. Deep, staggered pattern. Familiar.

I snap a shot. Then scroll back through the photos I took behind Sadie’s place yesterday. I pull up the boot prints and the tire tracks from the alley and compare them to the ones I snapped a week ago outside the gas station—both match.

His truck’s always parked in the same spot. Old Chevy, forest green, lifted just enough to clear brush. I’ve seen that exact tread on the side of the bait shop. I’d bet the shell casing came from the same trip.

I exhale slowly. My fists tighten without thinking. I’m not surprised. I’ve already discovered the guy’s got a mouth on him, the kind of man who throws his weight around the second someone makes him feel small. But this? Leaving boot prints outside Sadie’s house? Circling her like a predator?

I check my compass, reroute toward the ridgeline west of the shack. There’s a trail up there the loggers used years ago. I want to know how deep this rabbit hole goes. As I climb, my mind drifts back to Sadie. I could hear her fingers shaking just a little when she locked the door last night. Her voice when she said,‘I don’t want to need you this much.’

She doesn’t know it yet but needing someone doesn’t make her weak. It means she’s still got something to protect. That puts her miles ahead of anyone in this town who’s already folded.

The ridge levels out. I stop at the top, crouch low, and scan the valley below. Not much to see but trees, an old switchback, and a rusted hunting stand leaning sideways into the brush. Still, I log the coordinates. This is where someone would sit if they wanted eyes on the shack from a distance.

By the time I start the descent, the sun’s higher. I check my watch. Still early enough to make my next move without drawing attention. I want to confront Joe. I want to pin him to the goddamn wall and ask him why he thinks he can put boots on Sadie’s property like he owns the dirt under her feet.

But I’ve learned better. Let a man think he’s not being watched, and he’ll always show his cards.

So I head back to town. Not fast. Not hidden either. Let them see me walking through the trees. Let them guess where I’ve been. I want whoever’s behind this to start sweating.

Because one thing’s certain now. This wasn’t random. This wasn’t kids. This was organized. Calculated. Someone in Glacier Hollow is building something in the shadows, and they’re trying to put Sadie in the middle of it. They’re going to regret that.

The cold sinks in deeper the closer I get to town. Not the kind you feel on your skin. The kind that lives beneath it—bone-deep, tight with instinct. I’ve been tracking threats my whole life, and whatever this is? It’s circling. Getting bolder.

I take the long way back, cutting down a side trail that loops around the gas station. Joe’s place. A squat cinderblock building with a flickering neon sign and three rusting pumps that look like they haven’t seen maintenance since the Clinton administration. I stop in, keeping it casual. Just a routine patrol, reminding him that I’m a presence. That’s the excuse I’ll use, if he asks.

Joe’s out front, stacking windshield fluid on a shelf like it’s a delicate art. He hears me before he sees me. I watch the shift in his shoulders. Quick. Tense. Not the reaction of a man with nothing to hide.

“Morning, Sheriff,” he says, not quite meeting my eyes.

I nod, slow. “Joe.”

He wipes his hands on a rag, even though they’re already clean. Stalls. “Something I can help you with?”

I let the pause hang long enough for discomfort to settle in. “Routine check-in. Making the rounds. Saw a vehicle out past Mile Marker Seven. Tread looked familiar.”

Joe doesn’t flinch. But he also doesn’t ask what kind of tread. Doesn’t pretend to be curious. Just shrugs. “People dump all kinds of trash up that way.”

“Sure,” I say, stepping a little closer. “Have you been out that way recently?”

His mouth tightens. He shakes his head. “Nah. Busy here. Fuel shipments, tourists.”

There haven’t been tourists since February. And he knows I know it. I nod, feigning belief, and glanced at his old Ford parked beside the building. Same tread. I’d bet my badge on it. I don’t call him out. Not yet. Let him think I’m still connecting dots. Let him wonder how many I’ve already connected. That’s when people start making mistakes.

“You see anyone hanging around the café lately? After hours? Unfamiliar vehicles?” I ask.

Joe finally looks up. Brief eye contact. Then he shrugs again. “Just the usual crowd. Teens sometimes. Kids acting tough.”

Liar. But the kind who thinks he's smarter than he is.

“Alright,” I say, already turning back toward my office. “If you do, let me know. I’m tracking a pattern.”

That gets him. His shoulders jerk—just enough to register. Good. Let it stew.

Back at the sheriff’s office, I upload the cache contents from the shack to the server I had installed and attached to the state’s secure network when I first came to Glacier Hollow. The encrypted logbook is still a mess of symbols and half-coded entries, but I’ve got a few keywords flagged—names, GPS entries, dates. One matches the day before Tom Davies disappeared.

I make a note. It’s not enough for a warrant, not yet. But it’s getting there.

I walk over to the monitor on the far wall and pull up the live feeds from the motion-activated cameras I installed last week—one behind Sadie’s cottage, one at the alley behind the café. She doesn’t know about the second one. I didn’t ask. I’m not sorry.

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