Aaron Pike sat rigid in the passenger seat, knuckles white.
Adrenaline draining into nausea.
“Caleb…” his voice thinned. “She wasn’t moving when we left her. That cold out there isn’t a warning. It’s a sentence.”
Caleb snorted and threw the truck into gear.
“Relax. Nobody comes up here after dark.”
“By morning it’ll look like an accident… or an animal attack… or whatever people need it to be so they can sleep.”
In the back seat, Noah Kline said nothing.
He grew up in these woods.
He knew the rule his grandfather repeated like scripture:
Silence doesn’t mean absence. It means attention.
As the taillights vanished around the bend, none of them noticed the shift along the tree line.
The shadows rearranging.
The snow compressing under dozens of careful steps moving in deliberate unison.
They believed they were alone.
They were catastrophically wrong.
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