Chapter 3

Michael lay sprawled on his back in the middle of the floor, two gaping wounds in his chest, a third lower down in his gut. Blood covered the floor around Michael’s body.

Derek dropped the bow and the rabbits on the narrow stoop, hastening to kneel by Michael. He knew the man was dead. No one could survive such wounds. But he still cradled his friend in his arms, rocking back and forth as he cried, begging Michael to say something.

Later—he didn’t know how much later other than that the sun was pouring in through the west window as it went down over a mountain top—Derek finally laid Michael’s body down. Staggering to his feet, he looked around the cabin, searching for any clue to who had killed his friend.

He realized there were bloody footprints leading toward the door—boot prints, he thought. Michael’s killer had checked to see if he was dead—like there could be any doubt.