Page 54 of Easy, Tiger

"Who checked this out last?" I ask, keeping my voice even.

Grace flips to the checkout card tucked into the back cover, more out of habit than suspicion. "Must be a researcher, a few years back. Consultant of some kind." She squints at the faded ink. "Name's hard to read. Weaver, maybe? Tobias Weaver."

"Never heard of him." Copying the name onto the corner of my sketchbook page, I keep my features blank and neutral.

"Doesn't ring a bell for me either, but we get visiting researchers all the time. Doesn't mean much." Grace straightens, already distracted by a patron waving from the front desk. "Let me know if you find anything else interesting back here."

Once she's gone, I evaluate the remaining pages, viewing what was left behind versus what was taken. Whoever pulled these sections only wanted specific information: late-autumn routes, nothing from summer territory or denning season. They are selective rather than curious. A researcher browsing for general interest doesn't cut right around the exact window an enclave would be most exposed to.

"He knew exactly what he was searching for," I muse, more to myself than anyone.

Gathering my sketches and a few photocopied pages Grace doesn't think twice about running off for me; my mind already races toward the next step. On my way out, I stop at the front desk on the pretense of returning a pencil I borrowed.

"One more thing," I say. "This Weaver name on the checkout card. Would the library have kept any paperwork? Contact info, credentials, anything like that?"

Grace digs through a drawer of old request forms without much interest, extracting a single sheet. "He's listed a university and a supervisor's number for reference. Standard stuff for anyone requesting restricted archive access." She hands it over, already turning back to her patron. "You're welcome to it if it helps your guide."

"Thanks, Grace." Folding the paper into my sketchbook, a jolt of adrenaline shoots through me. "You've been a huge help. Seriously."

"Anytime! That's what I'm here for." She waves me off with a smile that has no idea what she's handed me.

Sitting in my truck in the library parking lot, I linger for a beat before dialing the number listed for Weaver's supervisor, my hands trembling slightly on the phone. It rings twice before connecting to an automated voicemail system that doesn't reference any department, university, or name.

Trying the university switchboard next, I ask to be connected to the environmental sciences department. A friendly receptionist checks their staff directory twice before telling me, apologetically, that no Dr. Tobias Weaver has ever worked there.

My grip tightens on the phone. Whoever snatched those pages mastered migration patterns while building an entire false identity to secure the exact information he needed—leaving a trail that vanishes completely.

Heading toward my truck, I whip out my phone to text Nolan as I walk.

Found something important about the hunter. Coming to your place now.

His response comes immediately: Drive safe. I’m at the town cabin. I'll put coffee on.

The drive to Nolan's town cabin feels longer than usual, my thoughts racing through implications. This hunter treats his work like how a scientist treats an experiment, meticulous and patient, gathering intelligence through channels no one would think to question. That makes him far more dangerous than someone acting on impulse or opportunity.

I find Nolan waiting on the porch of his workshop property, tension visible in his rigid shoulders as I park the truck. He takes the folder from me before I've even reached the steps.

"What did you find?"

"Evidence that our hunter has been planning this for months, maybe years." I follow him inside, where the warmth of fresh coffee mingles with sawdust and wood polish. "He is mapping out your movements by utilizing decades of conservation research, Nolan. His name's on a checkout card as Dr. Tobias Weaver. I called the university listed on his paperwork myself." I wait until Nolan lifts his gaze. "They've never heard of him. Whoever this is, he built the identity only to get into that archive."

Nolan spreads the documents across his kitchen table, his expression darkening as he reads. "Fake credentials, fake university affiliation, and he still walked in the front door."

"But real access to thirty years of migration data that perfectly maps your traditional routes." Taking out my sketches, I lay them beside Grace's photocopies. "Examine this pattern. Every ambush location, every sighting he's anticipated, it all corresponds to historical research your people unknowingly participated in."

"Son of a bitch," Nolan speaks with simmering fury. "We've been following the same paths for generations, and he turned our own history into a weapon."

"Which means he already knows where you're planning to go for winter migration."

Nolan looks up from the documents, understanding dawning on every line of his face. "Then we take an entirely new path. We change everything."

He plucks out his phone, already typing a message to Owen, but his free hand finds mine across the table first, squeezing like he needs the reminder that I'm here, safe, sitting across from him and not out on some ridge where anyone could find me.

"You did this," he says. "Found what none of us could."

"I had help and simply didn't know I was asking for it at the time." I think of Grace's easy trust, handing over records with absolute blind trust, never once suspecting what she was really giving me. "We need to be cautious about what she knows, Nolan. Unaware of what she was actually assisting with, she helped me, and I intend to keep it that way."

"Agreed." He squeezes my hand once before releasing it to gather the documents. "The fewer people who know how close we are to him, the safer everyone stays. Including her."