Page 38 of Easy, Tiger

"Fair enough."

"I mean it. The mysterious timing, the way you always seem to know when something's wrong." I fold my arms. "And you called ahead when there wasn't even time to dial a phone⁠—"

"I know." He swaps my bag to his other hand. "Later."

The promise feels genuine, like he's actually committing to honesty instead of deflecting. "Good."

Nolan nudges open the library's heavy oak door, and the familiar warmth of aged paper and binding glue wraps around us. Grace emerges from behind the circulation desk, her stylish glasses catching the afternoon light filtering through tall windows.

"Halsey! Perfect timing." She smooths her black bob behind one ear, already moving toward the historical archives section. "Nolan mentioned you might want to dig into some of our older wildlife documentation."

"Someone broke into her cabin," Nolan says without preamble. "She'll be here for a bit while I check things out. That work for you?"

Grace's demeanor transforms from friendly librarian to protective friend in the span of a heartbeat. "Of course. Are you okay?"

"Rattled but unharmed." Glancing between them, I note how easily they communicate with minimal words. "They only went through my illustrations."

"Weird." Grace frowns, then brightens with the enthusiasm I've come to associate with her passion for local history. "Well, if you're stuck here anyway, want to explore some journals that might help with your field guide? I've got naturalist records going back to the 1800s."

"That sounds perfect, actually."

Nolan sets my bag beside a reading table near the archives. "I'll pick you up in a few hours."

"Be careful."

Surprise crosses his face, perhaps at the realization that I’m worried about him instead of solely myself. "Always am."

Grace waits until his truck fades down Main Street before leading me deeper into the stacks. "He's protective of people he cares about."

"So I've noticed."

"The historical wildlife section is back here." She navigates between towering shelves with familiar ease. "Some of these journals are absolutely fascinating. Early settlers documented migration patterns alongside seasonal behaviors—not to mention various rather fantastical claims about local fauna."

"Fantastical how?"

"Oh, you know how stories grow over time. Wolves the size of bears, mysterious cat sightings that couldn't possibly be accurate." Grace grabs several leather-bound volumes from a locked cabinet. "But the migration data is solid gold for your purposes."

I take up residence at a reading table worn down by decades of researchers. The first journal opens to reveal meticulous handwriting documenting animal movements through the region. Page after page details seasonal patterns, weather correlations, and territorial boundaries drawn in fading ink.

"This is incredible work." My finger glides along sketched maps depicting wildlife corridors. "Especially the detail in these migration routes."

"The Thomsen family kept records for nearly sixty years. Three generations of naturalists. Actually, Mrs. Doyle is a Thomsen on her mother's side. Her great-grandfather was the one who started these journals before some of the family moved out west. She occasionally tells stories about him." Grace opens another volume, uncovering more recent entries. "They tracked everything—deer, elk, black bears, even reported big cat sightings."

My pencil hovers over a sketch I'm copying. "Big cats?"

"Mountain lions, presumably. Though some descriptions seem... exaggerated." She runs a thumbnail under an entry dated October 1987. "Listen to this: 'Orange and black striped cat, approximately eight feet in length, observed crossing Copper Ridge during seasonal migration.'"

A cold dread shoots through my veins. "Tigers don't live in North America."

"Exactly. Clearly, someone's imagination got the better of them." Grace flips to another section. "Of course, the scientific community laughed the Thomsen family out of the room back in the day. Branded them as crazy Appalachian moonshiners seeing monsters in the woods. Their findings were completely discredited, which is why these journals ended up in our local folklore and myths section instead of a university science archive. But check the migration timing—it matches perfectly with other documented wildlife movements."

Decoding the drawn routes, I discern how they converge near familiar landmarks. The creek where I found the wounded tiger lies directly along one of the primary corridors marked in journal after journal, the same pattern repeating with unsettling precision across sixty years of entries.

A cold sense of dread washes over me, independent of the library's drafty stone walls. I don't know what any of it means yet: the coffee stain on my tiger sketch, the timing of Nolan's unexpected appearances, or a hundred-year-old journal entry describing an animal that shouldn't exist. But something about how it all lines up refuses to feel like a coincidence.

14

NOLAN