Page 38 of Hunter or Hunted

Why had Delilah worn a pair of two-hundred-dollar sneakers, a few sizes too big, to hang herself in the woods? Only days after heavy snowfall as well. Why not a pair of boots?

Rhiannon couldn’t provide an answer, either. According to the inventory log at the community closet inside the ranch, Delilah had taken two pairs of shoes from their communal closet. Blue snow boots, brand unspecified, and white off-brand sneakers from a department store chain.

Edwards asked Rhiannon if she remembered the shoes Delilah had worn on her way in. A pair of slippers, Rhiannon confirmed with confidence.

“She literally ran out the door in the middle of the night, Edwards,” Rhiannon had told him. “She didn’t have time to pack a bag. Since she’s been here, she hasn’t made enough money to go buy an expensive pair of shoes either. I don’t know how, I don’t know why, but please keep looking into that. She died wearing shoes that weren’t hers.”

So Edwards continued looking into it. And he still had nothing.

Cause of death? Asphyxiation by instrument. As in, a thin rope wrapped around her neck and suspending her nearly three feet off the ground. No sign of foul play, according to the autopsy.

His superior insisted Edwards was reaching. She could have borrowed the shoes from another girl at the ranch. She could have grabbed them at a thrift store. Both would explain why they didn’t fit.

Neither would explain why she wore them instead of boots when the snow was knee-high.

Edwards’s stomach dropped.

The snow wasn’t knee-high. Not on that path from the car to the tree. It had been cleared—at least enough for Delilah to have walked from the car to the tree. Little streaks of orange ran through the white tracks of snow.

It was so obvious. Why hadn’t he thought of it before?

Edwards grabbed two photos from his desk. One, shot from the road, highlighting the path. The other, of a plastic black shovel recovered from the ground beneath Delilah’s feet.

His heart drummed a little faster, a little harder, as his slow steps morphed into a steady jog. He rounded the bend outside his office door, then another at the end of the hall. There, on his right, glinted a golden plaque.

Detective Mitchell.

Edwards tapped a few times on the glass pane. The cheap plastic mini blinds rattled with each rap.

“Come on in,” Mitchell called.

Edwards spun the knob and poked his head inside. “You got a minute, sir?”

Mitchell stood in the corner of his room, in front of a closet door. He only glanced at Edwards over his shoulder, reaching inside for his jacket. “Just a minute. Cheryl’s already pissed. We’re supposed to be at her parents’ in thirty minutes, and it’s an hour drive.”

“Sorry. I’ll make this quick.” Edwards stepped inside and clicked the door shut behind him. “I was just looking at these photos from the scene of D—Allison’s suicide, and I noticed something.”

Wrapping a red plaid scarf around his neck, Mitchell arched a brow at Edwards. “Yeah? What’s that?”

“There’s a pathway.” Edwards spun the photo around and gestured to the final steps Delilah had taken. “From the car to the tree. She cleared a pathway.”

“Well, pretty sure she would’ve had to.” Mitchell shrugged on the expensive fabric coat. “There was more than two feet on the ground that night.”

“Right. Yeah, but doesn’t that strike you as odd?” Edwards rubbed his temples. “I mean, she brought a shovel. She really planned it. But if she really planned it, why didn’t she wear boots?”

“She didn’t bring it, exactly.” Mitchell leaned against the edge of his desk. “When we found the shovel, it piqued my interest too. So I talked to Eve—who Allison borrowed the car from—and she confirmed that she keeps a shovel in the back seat during the winter. Apparently she’s gotten snowed in at work a few times too many.”

Okay. Fine. The shovel made sense then. But⁠—

“I guess, yeah. The shovel was just there, and she figured, why not make her trek to the tree a little bit easier.” Edwards lifted the photo again. “The shovel we found, though—it’s plastic, right? Wouldn’t it have broken lifting that much snow? And look at this.”

Mitchell glanced at the photo. “What am I looking at?”

“These.” Edwards dragged his finger along the lines the shovel had left in the snow. “Do you see that little bit of orange?”

“It looks more like brown to me. Which is common when you’re shoveling. Shovel hits the mud, you drag a little bit of dirt through the snow.” Squinting, Mitchell cocked his head to the side. “Do you see something I don’t?”

Edwards slid the next photo out and held it beside the first. “I just—It looks like rust to me. When you shove a rusty shovel through snow, it leaves orange specks behind. I could be wrong, and I’m not sure it answers any real questions right now, but if I am—if she used a different shovel—why did we find this one at the scene?”