The cashier, a woman in her late 50s with curly hair and reading glasses, gave me a curious look. "Setting up a wildlife project?" she asked with a smile.
"Something like that," I answered. "Just capturing footage."
"Well, the bears come out early this year," she chuckled, "so you'll get plenty of video."
If only she knew, I thought.
After loading everything into the truck, I grabbed lunch at a small diner, trying to shake the constant feeling that someone was lurking in the shadows of my day. But even as I ate, my mind kept drifting back to the mountain: to the footprint, to the silhouette on my camera, to Karen's unhinged voicemail. Something was building—a pressure, a sense of inevitability.
By the time I headed back, clouds had rolled in thick, gray, heavy with the promise of rain. The mountain road was darker, quieter. I drove slower, scanning every bend, every turnout, every patch of forest.
When I finally reached my driveway, the first thing I noticed was the shape: a truck parked halfway down my drive. Not mine, not the sheriff's. A dented silver pickup with mismatched doors and mud-splattered tires.
My pulse jumped. That had to be Joey's.
I pulled in carefully, keeping a respectful distance between our vehicles. The cabin stood quiet behind him. Porch empty, door closed. No broken windows, no signs of forced entry. But the truck being here at all was already a violation.
I stepped out, my boots crunching on damp gravel, and called out, "Hello? Anyone here?"
No answer.
I raised my voice. "This is private property. You need to identify yourself."
Still nothing. The wind picked up, rattling leaves like a warning. I took a few steps forward, eyes scanning every corner, every shadow. The truck was cold, engine off for a while. No one was inside.
I circled toward the back of the cabin, heart thudding, expecting the worst—another cord, another trespass, some kind of sabotage. Instead, what I found froze me in place: a small metal box sat on the ground behind the cabin, open, wires spilling out. And the side panel of my breaker box was pried loose—just slightly, but unmistakably. Someone had tried to tamper with my electrical service. Not to steal, not to borrow—to tamper, in anger, in retaliation, or in some pathetic attempt at a lesson I didn't know.
But the implication was crystal clear: this wasn't about electricity anymore. This was personal.