Chapter 22

TWENTY-TWO

Rain tapped relentlessly against the clinic windows, a rhythmic, almost hypnotic sound that only amplified the oppressive silence inside. Evelyn’s muscles ached as she wiped down the stainless-steel table for what felt like the hundredth time that night. The clinic, once bustling with activity, was now a hollow shell of itself, filled only with the hum of fluorescents and the occasional soft mewl from the sick tabby in the back.

Her phone, wedged between her ear and shoulder, crackled with Liam’s voice, a welcome reminder of home.

“Thanks again for babysitting Chloe tonight, Liam,” Evelyn said, exhaustion creeping into her voice. “I know it’s been a long day for all of us.”

“No problem at all, Ms. Hartwell,” Liam replied, his voice warm and reassuring, much like his father’s. “Chloe’s been keeping me on my toes—she’s making sure I don’t burn the popcorn for movie night.”

“That sounds about right.” Evelyn chuckled, picturing her daughter’s determined expression. “Everything else going okay?”

“We’re doing great,” Liam said, his tone lighthearted. In the background, Chloe’s voice rang out, unmistakable in its enthusiasm. “Tell Mom I’m staying up ‘til she gets home! We’ve got extra popcorn ready!”

Evelyn’s heart softened, the fatigue momentarily lifting. “You two better save some for me.”

Liam laughed. “You got it. Just be safe coming home.”

“I will.” Evelyn glanced at the clock. “I’ve got a bit of a mess to clean up here. Vet left me with more than I bargained for, and I’ve got this sick cat to settle in. I’ll try to be home before Chloe’s bedtime.”

“No rush. We’ve got it covered here.”

With a final goodbye, Evelyn hung up, slipping her phone into her pocket. The lightness of the call faded as she surveyed the closed clinic. It always seemed there was one more thing keeping her later, one more task to finish. She rubbed her gritty eyes and headed toward the kennels to check on the sick tabby who lay quietly nestled in its bed.

Just a few more things and she’d be on her way home. She turned toward the supply closet, moving down the hallway —

CRASH.

The sharp sound of metal and glass clattering to the floor rang through the clinic, echoing in the stillness. Evelyn froze, stopped breathing. Her heart leapt into her throat, her pulse thudding loudly in her ears.

Her first instinct was to rationalize it—maybe a shelf had collapsed, or a stray animal had slipped through the back. But something deeper, more instinctual, told her otherwise.

Gripping her phone tightly, Evelyn’s thumb hovered over the keypad. She took a breath, shallow and unsteady, as she crept toward the operating room, the source of the noise. The rain pounded harder outside, amplifying the eerie quiet within.

The hallway stretched before her, each step toward the door feeling heavier than the last. When she reached the operating room, Evelyn paused, swallowing hard before gently pushing the door open with a soft creak.

Dim light from the hallway spilled in, casting long shadows across the room. Her eyes scanned the space, darting from corner to corner. Then, she saw it.

A metal tray lay overturned on the floor, glass vials shattered and liquid pooling around them. The room was in disarray, but there was no sign of an animal. No raccoon, no stray cat, nothing that could have knocked the tray over.

Just silence.

Evelyn’s breath hitched when she saw it. Him.

Rain lashed the forest with relentless force. Each step through the muck was a battle against nature itself, as boots sank into mud, the squelching sound swallowed by the downpour. The air was thick with the smell of damp earth and the sharp tang of ozone. Thunder rumbled overhead, a distant promise of worse to come.

Flashlight beams cut jagged paths through the trees, casting fleeting shadows that twisted in the storm.

“Here!” Tuck’s voice barely rose above the hiss of rain.

Hatch moved quickly, her Glock resting steady at her hip, each step deliberate as she knelt beside him. She caught something out of the corner of her eye, a discoloration in the foliage at her feet.

A dark smear stood out against the wet leaves and torn earth.

Blood.

"Beats a damn candy wrapper,” Tuck said.

Hatch examined the scene, eyes narrowing. “Looks like he took a bad fall.” She pointed to a jagged branch, its tip stained a dark red. "Wound's worse than we thought."

“Maybe he’s slowing down?”

“Maybe. If so, that means we might have a better chance of closing the gap.”

The hillside had turned into a slick slope of mud and debris. The rain, now a torrential wall of water, cascaded down and turned the forest floor into a treacherous battlefield. Rufus strained against his leash, his nose to the ground, catching faint traces of the fading scent.

Hank walked beside the hound, murmuring soft words of encouragement that were lost in the storm.

"Still on it,” he told the others, “but this rain isn’t helping. Won’t be long before we lose it altogether."

Hatch remained quiet, her focus sharp. The group kept a safe distance from the handler and his K9 partner, giving them room to work. Every so often, Rufus paused, his body tense, then pushed forward again. Time slipped away in the deluge, blurring time and space.

Then Rufus stopped. The bloodhound circled beneath a towering pine, nose twitching but uncertain. His usual confidence faltered, replaced by frustration.

"Scent's gone," Hank called out, shaking his head. Defeat tinged his voice.

The team gathered under the thick canopy, seeking brief shelter from the downpour. The rain drummed overhead, the weight of it seeping into every bone and muscle.

Tuck turned to Hatch, rainwater running in rivulets down his face. "Your call. We're losing light. Losing the trail. Where do you think he’s headed?"

She imagined herself in Bishop’s shoes—wounded, hunted, desperate for an escape.

“If it were me,” she said slowly, “I’d get off the trail. Find cover. Regroup.” She scanned the surrounding woods, then her eyes landed on a distant flicker through the trees. The faint glow of the town lights shimmered. “Somewhere with resources.”

Tuck tracked her gaze and bobbed his head slowly, rubbing at the salt and pepper stubble dotting his chin. "Makes sense."

Hank knelt beside Rufus, patting the dog’s side. The hound seemed eager but weary, his eyes still locked on the fading trail. "Ain’t much more we can do tonight," Hank said, the rain dripping from his cap. "Not in this."

Tuck sighed, frustration clear in his voice. “We regroup,” he said, decisive now. “We’ll catch him before he gets too comfortable.”

Hatch adjusted her rain-soaked jacket, exhaustion settling deep into her bones. The storm had sapped their energy, but they’d be back on the hunt soon enough.

Tuck glanced at her, his voice softening. “I’ll drop you at your motel. Get some rest, dry off. We’ll hit it again in the morning.”

“Thanks.”

As they made their way back through the soaked woods, the flickering lights of the town remained on the horizon, a reminder that the chase was far from over. The storm would pass, but the hunt would resume. And when it did, Bishop wouldn’t have the advantage for long.