This Fallen Prey (Rockton #3)(49)

Then I stand and march to the exit. “I’m going to find Brady. I’m going to find him and put a bullet through his gut and leave him out there. Let him drag his ass to shelter so he doesn’t get eaten by a pack of damned wolves. I will watch him drag his ass, and I will pray that the wolves come. Wolves or a wolverine or ravens. I hope it’s ravens. I hope they find him, gutshot, and they rip out his . . .”

I don’t go further. Dalton knows what I mean, and he doesn’t need to hear the details.

I stoop for the passageway, and Dalton grips my arm.

“Casey . . .”

“I’m going to find him.”

“You will. But Brady’s not waiting outside this cave.”

I wheel on him. “You think I don’t know that?”

“It’s been twelve hours.”

“I need to process the scene.”

“Twelve hours.”

The crime scene isn’t going anywhere. That’s what he means. He glances back at Brent’s body.

“No,” I say. “We’re not doing that right now. We need tools.”

“He has everything.”

“Later. He’s fine. He’ll be . . .”

Fine. He’ll be fine.

Brent is not fine. Brent is dead, and I don’t want to lay him to rest because it feels like acknowledgment. Feels like acceptance. Feels, too, like I’m stalling when I need to be acting.

“We need to—” I stop myself.

Find Jacob. Warn Jacob. That’s what I want to say, and that’s where I must draw the line. I can’t remind Dalton his brother is in danger, as if he doesn’t know that, as if he’s not holding himself back from running out to find him.

It has been twelve hours. Another hour won’t matter. Not for finding Jacob. Not for examining the crime scene.

For Brent, though . . .

“We made a promise,” Dalton says, his voice low.

“I . . . I . . .”

I look over at Brent’s body. And I burst into tears, and Dalton’s arms go around me, holding me tight as I sob against him.



We lay Brent’s body to rest, the way he wanted it, on an open platform, with him wearing his Canadiens jersey, a reminder of the season he’d played for the team, fifty years ago.

Afterward, I examine the crime scene. That’s what Dalton insists on for the next step. Jacob can wait—the crime scene could be disturbed.

Storm easily tracks Brent back to where he’d been shot. Blood and trampled grasses mark the exact spot, as do the grouse Brent shot. There’s a bow and arrows there, and I remember he was new to bow shooting, having finally agreed to let Jacob teach him.

Too old for this, he’d said, learning new tricks at my age. But it saves on ammo.

Dalton said he could bring more ammunition with his trades, but Brent had blustered that he needed the other items more. Which was a lie. He wanted to learn something new. Wanted to challenge himself.

Dalton takes the grouse. When we first met, I’d have been horrified by that. Stealing from the dead? Now I know better. It is a sign of respect. Brent killed these birds, and his efforts should not go to waste. Nor should the lives of those birds. We’ll eat them, and we’ll remember where they came from.

Dalton takes the bows and arrows, too.

“Jacob made these,” he says. “I’ll give them back when we catch up to him.”

Not when we find him. Certainly not if. There’s very little chance Jacob is in any danger, and it really is just a matter of catching up to him. I know that. Dalton knows that. Feeling it, though, is another matter.

Brent said he got my gun away from Brady, and he’s right. It’s there, hidden in the grass.

I see nothing at the crime scene to contradict Brent’s version of events. Not that he’d deliberately mislead us, but maybe he misunderstood. Maybe I’ll find something that proves the gunshot wasn’t an accidental discharge.

“What would prove that?” Dalton says when I admit what I’m hunting for.

“I have no idea. But I want it.”

He wisely says nothing and just lets me keep scouring.

“Brady is still culpable,” I say. “He held Brent at gunpoint. Whatever happens after that, it’s still murder, even if it’s second-degree.”

“It is.”

“And he ground his fist in the injury. I don’t care how desperate he was to find Jacob. That’s sadistic.”

“It is.”

I crouch and stare at the bloodied ground.

“You want proof he’s exactly what his stepfather says,” Dalton says. “Proof Brady is more than what he claims—a desperate man driven to desperate measures.”

“Yes.”

I want justification for my rage. I do want to see Brady gutshot for this. Gutshot and left in the forest. And that scares me. It’s the sort of thing Mathias would do, and I tiptoe around the truth of what Mathias is, alternately repelled and . . . Not attracted. Definitely not. But there’s part of me that thinks of what he does and nods in satisfaction. I could not do it, but it doesn’t horrify me nearly as much as it should.

“I should have come out last night,” Dalton says.

I look up at him, as I stay crouched.

“I decided not to come see him last night. I waited until morning.”