I rested my head against the ladder rung. What’s it going to be? Use my knowledge to look into his fall, or scamper off, tail between my legs, and whimper about having a PTSD moment? I hadn’t signed up for this. I was here to examine some documents. Interview a few people. Find either a pattern or a run of bad luck.

Not investigate potentially lethal accidents.

I scrambled up the ladder to the loft. The center of the barn was filled with hay bales neatly stacked and bound with orange baling twine. The air was rich with the mingled scents of hay, straw, alfalfa, and oats.

On the far side was a matching loft holding bales of the distinctly green timothy hay.

This loft had no bales, only a thick mat of loose hay. From where I stood, I couldn’t see the opening over Riccardo. I slowly walked forward, looking around for anything out of the ordinary.

I stopped when I reached the place where Riccardo had fallen, then knelt and inspected the area.

Below me, Riccardo’s parents were praying over their son.

Several new-looking nails had been hammered into the wood around the opening. Caught on one nail were several strands of orange baling twine.

Rocking back on my heels, I put a possible scenario together. Someone could have created a wolf pit type of trap. If baling twine was looped around the nails to form a base, then the loose hay spread over the top, the opening would disappear. Anyone could bait the trap by placing something on the far side. If Riccardo was the intended victim, most any electronic device would work. He’d head straight for the device. The twine wouldn’t hold any weight, and the victim would crash through, fall backward, and land on the conveniently placed pitchfork.

Cleanup would involve pulling any remaining twine and removing the bait.

I shook my head. Of course, all of this was speculation. Riccardo might have been exploring without looking where he was going.

When I was working for law enforcement, I could run my observations past my coworkers to be sure I was being objective. But here? I ran into a bear and thought it had been lured to that spot. A young man fell through a hayloft and I thought it was attempted murder. The therapist at Clan Firinn warned me that PTSD could warp how I viewed life and events.

The distant thumping of a helicopter announced help was on the way. The much closer barking of the dogs revealed an impending earthquake. The barn seemed to sigh and a cloud of dust rose with the mild quake.

Nona let out a short scream below me, and Riccardo moaned.

A lump formed in my throat. I hope he can get to a hospital in time.