Dr. Carver knelt between the body and several pairs of dusty hiking boots, and began a quick examination of poor Bob Tindale. “Well, he still has complete rigor stiffness, and as cold as it’s been the last few days, I’m gonna say he’s been dead no more than twenty-four hours. This seems to be the source of the infection.” He parted a section of fur over the stray’s belly to expose a set of long gashes so inflamed and festered I couldn’t tell whether they numbered two or three. Or four. “And based on the state of the wounds and the lack of other obvious trauma, my best guess is that he died of scratch fever.”

“So, natural causes?” Jace said, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

“In a manner of speaking.” Carver frowned up at him, then at me, which made me nervous. “He wasn’t technically murdered, but in instances like this, I find it hard not to blame the infector. In most cases, anyway.” The doc raised both brows at me, then tossed his head toward the corpse, telling me silently to take a whiff of the transmitter’s scent, which would be forever laced through the hiker’s personal new-stray smell.

Uh-oh. This can’t be good.

I squatted next to Carver and sniffed Mr. Tindale’s wounds from about a foot away. But that was close enough for me to understand what he’d been getting at.

Kaci.

The truth thundered through me, and I fell onto my rear on the cold ground. My eyelids slammed shut and refused to open, sparing me from sensory overload as I tried to make sense of evidence I didn’t want to believe. If I’d had fur, it would have been standing on end.

No. She couldn’t have. But no matter how badly I wanted to deny the truth, I knew better. Kaci’s scent was layered through the handicapped stray’s smell, forever binding her existence with his. And there was no other way it could have gotten there.

I rubbed my arms through my shirt, trying to fight off a numbness that came from inside me, rather than from the November chill. My nose ran from the cold and I dug a tissue from my pocket to wipe it.

“Faythe…” my father began, but I stood and backed away from the body before he could finish.

“No.” My head shook in denial. Marc reached out for me, but I dodged his hand. “No,” I repeated more firmly, turning to shove my way through the small crowd as I stuffed the tissue back into my pocket. “It’s a mistake. She wouldn’t do this.”

“Not on purpose,” my father admitted, and I felt the group’s focus shift from the dead hiker to me. “She’s been through a lot and probably had no idea what she was doing.”