The eastern fence came into view through the trees. Dana approached from the south, staying low.
Her tripwires gleamed in the afternoon light—guitar strings stretched between fence posts, nearly invisible unless you knew where to look.
The blood trail ended at the wire mesh where she'd found Luca.
Dana knelt beside the fence, studying the ground. The story was written in disturbed earth and broken branches.
Someone had crouched here, bleeding into the snow. Watching the farmhouse through binoculars or a rifle scope.
How long had they waited? Hours? Days?
Fresh gouges marked the fence posts where Luca had torn free. But underneath, older signs of disturbance.
Someone else had tested the perimeter before the boy arrived. Someone who'd known better than to get caught.
Dana's hands shook as she examined the wire. Not fear—anger.
Her sanctuary had been violated. Someone had turned her home into a target, her defenses into a known quantity.
She reset the tripwires with mechanical precision, checking each connection twice. The guitar strings sang softly in the wind, a metallic chorus of warning.
Anyone approaching now would trigger the alarms, but that assumed they didn't already know the system's weaknesses.
The afternoon light faded as Dana worked her way around the perimeter. Each trap required attention—the deadfall near the old well, the punji stakes hidden in the tall grass, the noose snares she'd woven from paracord and prayer.
By the time she finished, full dark had settled over the orchard. The farmhouse windows glowed yellow in the distance, kerosene lamps casting warm rectangles into the cold.
Dana made one final circuit, checking her shooting lanes. From the kitchen window, she had clear lines of fire to the eastern and southern approaches.
The north side was blocked by the barn, but she'd compensated with extra tripwires and a motion-activated flare.
The west remained her blind spot. Always had been.
The hill rose too steeply for easy approach, but it also blocked her view of anyone patient enough to climb it.
Inside, the house felt smaller than usual. Dana locked the door and wedged a chair under the handle—not much of a deterrent, but it would buy her seconds if someone tried to force entry.
She checked on Luca through the cellar door. Still asleep, breathing regular.
The boy had no idea how precarious their situation had become.
Dana made coffee and sat at the kitchen table, rifle across her lap. The maps were spread before her—hand-drawn sketches of the surrounding area, marked with escape routes and supply caches.
She'd planned for this day, prepared for the moment when her isolation would be compromised.
But planning and living it were different animals.
The coffee grew cold as Dana studied the blood trail's implications. Someone had been watching before Luca arrived.
Someone who knew about the orchard, maybe even about her. The boy's presence might be coincidence—injured prey stumbling into a predator's territory.
Or it might be bait.
Dana pushed the thought away. Luca's wounds were real, his fear genuine.
No one would slice open a fourteen-year-old's ribs for the sake of authenticity.
Unless they would.
Dana had seen enough cruelty to know that some people had no limits. If Luca's father had made the kind of enemies who'd hunt a child across half the state, they might be capable of anything.