We’d speculated that Jacob might have abandoned his camp because he got wind of irresistible prey.

And he had. His prey was Oliver Brady.

Jacob was camping after taking down the bull caribou when he spotted the man he’d met with us a week ago, and he knew Brady ought not to be out wandering the forest alone.

Jacob had his bow and knife and a waterskin, and that was all he needed. He followed Brady for two days, waiting for an opportunity to take him down. He didn’t get one. The first night—when Brady massacred the settlers—Jacob lost him late in the day. He managed to find him again yesterday afternoon and planned to capture him that night but . . .

“He met up with a guy,” Jacob says.

I glance at Dalton. He says nothing but shoves his hands deeper into his pockets.

“Can you describe the person?” I ask.

“I didn’t get too close, but I could tell he was smaller than your guy.” Jacob moves a limb from the path. “No, not smaller. Shorter.”

Jacob goes on to say the guy had short, dark hair, maybe graying, but he wore a hat so it was hard to tell. Clean-shaven. Dressed in jeans, boots, and a bulky jacket. Carried a gun.

I reach for Dalton’s hand, our fingers interlocking. Jacob notices and says, “He’s one of yours?”

I nod. “Our lead militia. He took off last night. He was due to go home the day Brady arrived. We suspected he helped Brady escape, but we hoped Brady had just conned him into it, convinced our guy he was innocent.”

“That could still be the case, though, right? Brady tells your guy he’s innocent, and gets his help escaping, and then they meet to get through the forest. Paid escort.”

“Yeah,” Dalton says, “but if we keep telling ourselves there’s a logical explanation, we’re going to end up on the business end of a gun, finding out there isn’t.”

“I guess so.”

We keep walking. I ask Jacob where Brady has been, what he’s been doing. Jacob first encountered him over by the mountain, where we found Val’s body. From there, Brady wandered. Or so it seemed to us, but as Dalton points out, without wilderness navigation experience, he probably thought he was getting someplace.

It’s even possible that he climbed the mountain to get a better vantage point and in the distance spotted the First Settlement. Because that’s the direction he seemed to head. From the mountain, he must have met up with the hunting party and killed them. When Jacob found Brady’s trail again the next day, he saw him watching the First Settlement.

“He scaled a tree on the far side. He kept his distance, but he stayed up there until early evening before he came down and took off.”

Had he seen the village from the mountain, thought it was a town, and made his way there, only to realize those people lived even more primitively than we did? That they had no ATVs or motor vehicles or horses he could steal?

But the First Settlement was only two hours’ walk from where Brady massacred settlers for their belongings. Why do that if he thought he was close to the end of his journey?

So many questions. All of them unanswerable until we have Brady.

Jacob had spent today tracking his quarry. Plan A had been to capture him at night and march him back at knifepoint. Plan B had been to wound him from afar and do the same. But Kenny’s arrival kiboshed that.

Then, as Jacob tracked them, he heard the First Settlement men who’d escorted us into the forest. He overheard enough to realize we were in the area. So he’d made note of Brady’s current location and hurried to find us.

We reach Brady’s camp. He’s not there. That’s only mildly disappointing—we figured he’d only pulled over to rest. But he’s been here, very recently, so we’ll find him.

There are two wrappers in the clearing where Jacob had seen Brady and Kenny sitting on logs. Protein bar wrappers. The kind we keep stashed in the militia equipment shed.

I pick one up and examine it.

“Yeah, that’s ours,” Dalton says.

“I know.” Something about the wrapper nudges at me, though, telling me to look closer. I see these bars almost daily—Dalton insists we inventory any pack before taking it out.

This flavor is my personal favorite— chocolate peanut-butter. Or it used to be my favorite. The company revamped the recipe lately and changed the packaging, sticking on a New & Improved Taste! band, which I’d grumbled should read New & Cheaper Ingredients! because it definitely did not taste better.

“This is old stock,” I say, confirming as I check the expiration date.

Dalton shrugs. Jacob has already headed out to find the trail, and Dalton’s struggling against telling me to put the damned wrapper away and come on before the trail gets cold.

“We ran out of these months ago,” I say.

“Yeah, okay.” He peers into the forest, head tilting as if he’s listening for his brother. Storm tugs at the leash, seconding his impatience.

“Did we have old stock anywhere?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” he says. “Is that important?”

It isn’t. Not right now. But it’s bugging me, like so many things.

I fold the wrapper and put it in my pocket as I follow him from the clearing.

Jacob finds the trail easily. Brady is no outdoorsman. Once he got far enough from Rockton, he stopped using even amateur methods of hiding his trail. He’s walking along what he probably thinks is a path, but it’s really just a deer route. That means it’s narrow, and we find freshly broken twigs and crushed vegetation, and even footprints when the ground gets marshy.

Jacob is in the lead, maybe twenty paces ahead. It’s impossible to walk silently with an eighty-pound Newfoundland panting and lumbering alongside us, so we’re hanging back. When Jacob finds the footprints, he gives a birdcall and, through the trees, I see him gesture at the ground. Then he keeps going.

We reach the spot, and I see what he was indicating and crouch to examine footprint impressions in the soft ground. Some of the prints are partials, just a toe or heel squelching down, the rest of the foot on harder ground. But I count five nearly complete and distinct shoe impressions. Three come from sneakers. Brady had been wearing sneakers the last time I saw him.

When I motion for Dalton, he puts his foot beside one print and I can confirm it’s the same size, a nine. Average-size feet from an average-size man. Yet they give me that now-familiar niggle. I didn’t expect Brady would still be wearing sneakers. Why not, though? That’s what he fled wearing, and it’s not as if he’d have been able to find other footwear in the forest.

“Those are his,” Dalton says. “Since you seem to be wondering.”

“I am.”

“They match the prints he left when he first ran. I remember thinking they’re shitty shoes. The kind of fancy sneakers that wear out after a month out here.”

I nod. He’s right. But something . . .

I turn to the other prints. These are boots. Rockton boots. We don’t exactly have a shopping mall of selection in town. Dalton finds a couple of styles that fit his criteria—good for outdoors, readily available, durable and reasonably priced—and that’s what you get. These are the type I wore until I went down to Whitehorse with Dalton and bought a pair better suited to my small feet.

I flash back to last month, in the station, waterproofing my new boots. Anders came in with Kenny and picked up the boot I’d already done.

He whistled. “Nice.”

“Yep, I’m spoiled. Perks of sleeping with the boss.”

“You mean compensation for sleeping with the boss.”

Kenny chuckled at that and took the boot from Anders. “These are nice. Good arches. That’s the problem with mine. Not enough support for high arches. Hurts like a bitch after a daylong hunt.”

“How long have you been here?” Anders said. “And you’re just telling us now?”

Kenny shrugged. “I didn’t want to complain.”

It’d been too late to get him special boots, and when Dalton said we had a stash of other ones—different designs for those who couldn’t wear the usuals—Kenny had brushed it off. That’s how he was. Never wanted to make waves. Never wanted to ask for anything special. Like the bullied kid who found his way into the cool clique and just wanted to ride that out, behave himself in case the others decided he was a pain in the ass and kicked him out.

Which is why helping Brady doesn’t—

I rub my neck. Stop making excuses. My flashback does prove something: that I know Kenny left Rockton wearing boots like these.

Dalton moves his foot beside one print without prompting. It’s smaller than his. Smaller enough to be noticeable, and yet significantly larger than my ladies’ size five. A men’s seven maybe.

I remember Anders joking that Kenny should try on mine—that they might fit. Which suggested Kenny’s feet were small.

“Casey?”

I nod and straighten. This is the worst part of community policing—investigating a crime when the person responsible is someone I know, someone I like. I need to remind myself that beyond the few people I associate closely with, I don’t really know anyone in Rockton. I cannot know their pasts. Even people without that past can come here and commit horrible crimes.

I grieve for the loss of the Kenny I thought I knew. I’m deep in my thoughts, following Dalton, and—

“Stop right there,” a voice rings out. “Hands on your head, you son of a bitch, or I swear I’ll—I’ll fucking shoot you and drag your . . . fucking ass back to Rockton.”

I know that voice. I even know the diction—a poor imitation of Dalton by a guy who wants to be him.

“Kenny?” I whisper. I was just thinking of Kenny, and therefore I must be mishearing or—

Dalton is running. Doubled over, running full out. I’m taking off after him, my gun out as he pulls his. We pass a tree, and ahead I see Kenny holding a gun at Jacob’s back.