This Fallen Prey (Rockton #3)(93)

The inflection tells me he knows full well Jacob is more. The resemblance is undeniable. But I only say, “Yes, Jacob is a local scout.”

“I thought he was Brady. He’s about the right size. And he’s got light hair. His hood was up or I’d have noticed his hair’s too long. Plus, uh, the beard.” Kenny exhales. “I’m sorry. I heard someone, and then I saw a guy the right size, and I jumped the gun.”

I compared Kenny’s boot to Dalton’s. Kenny’s is a couple of sizes smaller.

“Have you been on this path?” I say.

“I was on a bigger one over there.” He points left. “I might have been on this one earlier, but I don’t think so. I’ve been heading for that mountain.” He points to our right.

I look at Jacob. “The person you saw with Brady . . . He was definitely with him. Talking to him? Sitting with him?”

“I heard voices. They seemed to be talking. They sat together, and I saw the guy pass Brady food.”

“Eric? Can you empty Kenny’s pockets and backpack?”

He does. There’s a waterskin and basic tools. For food, he’s brought dried meat and a handful of protein bars.

“You took these from the supply cabinet?” I say, waving the bars.

Kenny nods. “I’ll repay them.”

“Not my biggest concern right now.” I go through the handful of bars. “You already ate the chocolate peanut butter ones?”

“I didn’t take any. I know those are your favorite, so I leave them for you. The cookie ones are good, though.”

“She’s not asking because she’s hungry,” Dalton says.

“Right. Sorry. I didn’t take any of the chocolate peanut butter.”

“What about old stock?”

“Old stock?”

“There was a box of chocolate peanut butter that went missing a while ago. Do you know anything about that?”

Dalton’s gaze cuts my way, but he says nothing. I’m bullshitting about the missing box. The truth is that we don’t monitor the bars that tightly, figuring if the militia want to sneak a few extras, that’s a perk for their help.

When I say that, though, Kenny looks uncomfortable.

“Kenny . . .” I prod.

“Someone took a bunch of old stock,” he says. “I don’t know what flavors. I just know that when I did inventory a while back, we had out-of-date bars and I put them aside to ask Will what to do with them, and they went missing. I decided not to say anything. They were old stock.”

“You have no idea who took them?”

That uncomfortable look again. “I . . . No. I don’t.”

He’s lying. I don’t know why, but I need this answer. I study Kenny—the set of his jaw, the look in his eye—and I see it’s not time to press the matter.

“Eric?” I lift Kenny’s boot, and he nods.

When I pass Storm’s lead to Jacob, Dalton’s ready to argue, but I say, “I’ll be quick,” and I get a reluctant nod.

I take off at a jog back to the footprints. They’re just around the corner, and when I reach them, I look back to see Dalton. He’s moved about ten steps from Kenny, his gun still on the suspect but staying within sight range of me.

I crouch with the boot in hand. First, I confirm, beyond a doubt, that the tread is correct. Eyeballing it, I’d also say the size is, but when I lower the boot below the prints, I see that the ones in the soft earth appear to be a size smaller.

I prod the edge of the print. While the ground is damp, it doesn’t seem wet enough for the print to have contracted a size. That’s possible, though. Soft ground shifts. If the boot is the right type and almost the right size . . .

Wait.

It’s not the same boot. Closer examination shows that the wear pattern doesn’t match. Kenny’s are worn, with an uneven tread, maybe the result of unsupportive boots and high arches. The prints look like new boots, the tread very distinct.

I check the tag inside Kenny’s. Then I look at the prints again.

New boots. Rockton-issue. Size-seven men’s. Small for a man’s shoe.

Not small for a woman’s. Not unreasonably large either. That works out to maybe a nine. While we have women’s boot sizes, many choose to wear the guys’, finding them sturdier.

I work through Jacob’s description of the person he spotted with Brady. Clean-shaven. Shorter than Brady. A bulky jacket, which would hide breasts.

There is a person with Brady. This person showed up at some point between day one and last night. This person is from Rockton, as evidenced by the clothing and the bars.

Someone has betrayed us. That person does not seem to be Kenny.

One name keeps coming to mind.

My other suspect for the poisoning, for Brady’s accomplice.

Jen.

I’m working through how much of it fits when Dalton calls, “Casey?”

I’ve been bent over and out of his sight too long, and it’s a testament to his self-control that he didn’t shout “Butler!” the second I disappeared.

I rise and see him farther down the path, anxiously straining to spot me, resisting the urge to run and check. When I wave, I swear I hear him exhale from thirty feet away.

I glance down at the prints one last time, but they aren’t telling me anything new. I’m turning from them when I see a flicker in the bush. I drop Kenny’s boot and raise my gun.