Page 163

He means it.

He has no right to promise it.

The first sign is the walkie.

It lies half-buried in leaves near a fallen log, black plastic cracked along one side. Someone stepped on it hard. The antenna is bent. The battery cover is gone.

One of them held this and tried to call.

My hand closes around it until the plastic creaks.

Mom kneels beside me. “Leon.”

I stand.

The clearing beyond the log is torn apart. Not big. Not obvious to someone who doesn’t know what to look for. But I know. Broken branches. Leaves kicked wide. Dark smears in the dirt. A scattering of walnuts from a cloth bag. One crushed under a boot. A pale yellow mushroom smashed flat near the base of a tree.

Poppy would have asked about that mushroom.

Blood.

Not a spray from a gunshot. Not a clean trail. Messy. Violent. Low to the ground.

A body went down there.

Maybe two.

Lyla crouches near another mark a few feet away. “Someone fought hard.”

Of course they did.

Clair would have turned this whole forest into a grave before letting anyone take Poppy.

I scan the ground and find a drag mark. Then another. Leaves shove aside in twin streaks, heels cutting shallow grooves into the damp soil. One trail heavier than the other. Two bodies dragged, maybe three. The marks lead deeper through the trees.

My heart starts punching my ribs.

I follow.

Fast.

Trish curses behind me. “Leon, wait.”

I don’t.

A smear of blood stains the bark of an oak where someone grabbed it. Five streaks. Fingertips. Small.

Poppy.

The air leaves me.

I press my hand over the marks, covering them with my palm like I can protect what already happened. Small fingers. Fighting.

My brave girl.

A few feet away, a strip of dark fabric hangs from a broken branch. Clair’s shirt. Torn clean through like someone grabbed and she ripped herself away.

My hands go numb around Poppy’s bow.