“Let’s focus on what’s important right now,” he uttered, as he pointed to the tree. “You got a map of the trail?”
The sheriff gave one last blazing glare at his officer before grabbing hold of a map in his pocket and handing it to Warren. They all knew the cop made a terrible mistake and would likely be suspended, but Warren was right—the mistake already happened and now they needed to focus.
Warren bent over, laying the map upon the ground, and motioned with his hand for Tara to come near. She sat on her heels next to him. He was beginning to trust her, letting her in on the workings of his mind, seeking her opinion, and she felt her confidence grow at the slow gain of his trust.
She stared down at the map, where the Appalachian Trail was marked with a long red squiggly line. It ran across fourteen states, all the way from Maine to Georgia. Sheriff Russo had already marked on the map where the two crime scenes were. One, where they now stood, and the other three miles north.
Warren reached into the pocket of his shirt and pulled out a pen, placing it atop the location of the first crime scene. Tara already knew what he was doing. He was marking the directions that the compasses pointed, trying to visually see it all. She continued to watch as he drew an arrow, pointing it north up the trail. He then moved the pen to where the second crime scene was marked, and drew another arrow, pointing south. When done, he tilted his head back, looking at it as a whole, and so did Tara. It was clear the compasses were pointing to each other.
The sheriff and the two cops moved closer and looked down at the map as well.
“What do you think it means?” the sheriff uttered over their shoulders.
But as Tara stared down at Warren’s carefully drawn arrows, she didn’t have a response. She wanted it all to mean something, to be a clue, but seeing the compasses point to each other was not what she expected. She focused on the map for a moment longer, and a thought struck her. Maybe it was pointing to the next crime scene. Maybe her original theory was right. After all, the arrow was pointing in the direction the killer was moving, since he did come back to the first scene.
The trail did not run perfectly north to south. It ran in a somewhat diagonal line, northwest to southeast, but maybe the compasses showed which way he was bound, north or south. She tried to work out the details in her head. If she was right, then the compass placed at the first crime scene pointed to the second, and the one found there pointed not to the first crime scene, but past where they stood.
“I suppose it still could be pointing to the next crime scene,” Tara finally said out loud.
Warren slowly nodded his head, his eyes still locked on the map.
“It’s possible,” he said. “But this could also be a distraction.”
It was a thought that Tara hadn’t considered, and at the mention, she realized they didn’t yet have enough evidence to prove her theory.
Warren’s eyes moved up to the engravings in the tree and Tara knew he was trying to make sense of those too.
“Maybe the sun is a clue that he strikes at daybreak,” Tara suggested, and Warren nodded.
“‘They Never Leave’ could mean that they never leave the forest alive,” he added.
Suddenly the sheriff’s phone rang. He picked it up quickly and spoke briefly before turning toward Tara and Warren.
“The victim’s father just arrived,” he said. Tara knew he was referring to the victim found on the porch, since he had mentioned it earlier that he was coming. “He’s at the station now if you want to have a word with him.”
***
The victim’s father sat in front of them in a small room at the police station with a picture of his daughter tightly in his grip. His hands were caked in car grease and he wore a blue button-down with his name sewn into it. He was a mechanic of some sort and had clearly left in a hurry.
“Does she have a boyfriend? Or any siblings she might’ve been in contact with?” Warren asked.
It was the second time he had asked that question, but just like the last few times the man attempted to speak, no words could leave his throat, becoming trapped in the vibrato of emotion. This time, he looked down at the picture in his hands and let the emotion overcome him.
Tara knew he needed a moment. He needed to let the wound bleed. He was feeling its realness for the first time, and Tara knew firsthand how paralyzing that feeling was. When she lost her mother, she had gone through an array of emotions. As first she thought maybe it wasn’t true but then reality would hit her in waves, pulling her deep into a sea of unknown, and each time she would lose her breath.
She watched him stare at the picture of his daughter but his eyes were looking past it, deep into the depths of disbelief.
“No,” he finally managed. “She just had me. No siblings, no boyfriend.” He took a deep breath. “My wife died of cancer ten years ago.” He cupped his face with his hand and let out a muffled cry. “My baby girl.”
He was completely broken and in some way, it lifted a strange feeling within Tara. She couldn’t tell if it was just deep empathy or the tug on a deep forgotten wound.
She finally got up, grabbing hold of a box of tissues and placing them in front of him. His gaze remained transfixed on his daughter, and she felt another painful tug as she pulled her chair closer and stroked his back for a moment. His body shook with pain.
“We’re going to find who
