We reached a dilapidated trapper’s cabin, half-buried under snow, lantern light flickering inside. I wrapped her in blankets, pressing a metal cup of warm water to her lips.
“Who did this?” I asked again.
“Birch Hollow Mill,” she murmured, voice weak. “They’re moving… moving what?”
From a hidden seam in her jacket, she produced a small black memory card, slick with ice and blood.
“Evidence,” she said. “Drugs, payoffs, dead workers. My father warned me. Sheriff Dalton Morgan…”
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