Page 257 of Primal

But if it’s moving …

Then he’s close.

I double back to where I left Payton, scanning for trail markers, pressure points. White noise from the repeater trying to sync.

Come on, baby. Give me one blip.

I move in widening arcs. Each pass a calculated risk.

First circle: Static.

Second circle: A flicker—gone before I can lock on.

Third circle: My watch shrieks to life.

182 BPM. Fuck, something’s happening.

A single blip of data slips through the jammer’s teeth:

150 yards northeast.

Ground level. Hollow? Ditch?

Moving south.

Then—silence again. But it’s enough.

I take off. The world tilts underfoot.

182 BPM.

Could mean she’s running. Could mean some other clueless prick has her pinned to a tree.

Or—

He’s got her.

The Ghostface who gutted Trevor. The one who turns a blade into foreplay before death. Is she arching into it?

Or already bleeding out?

Fuck.

Someone’s been here.

The ground’s torn up, branches broken. A boot print—too large to be Payton’s. A fleck of something dark. I crouch, rub it between my fingers.

Blood. Fresh.

My jaw locks. If that’s hers—

No. Not yet. Not ever.

I follow the trail. My steps are quiet. But my mind’s too fucking loud.

The stench hits first—blood, shit, some floral crap that just makes it worse.

Then I see her. Sprawled on the ground. Black corset split clean down the middle—lace severed. Not torn. Cut.