Searching Shadows: The Peak District Mysteries, #6

By Jo A Hiestand and Paul Hornung

The watchers that night who saw only blackness and the suggestion of trees massed against an ebony sky claimed later that they knew something would happen. Some probably cursed their ill luck that they hadn't chosen the right hour to watch; others probably feigned disappointment but secretly rejoiced that they hadn't seen it.  But one watcher, enveloped in fog and superstition, neither rejoiced nor cursed, viewing the spectacle merely as an eyewitness to the centuries-old custom and accepting the dubious honor that added his name to the meager list of Those Who Had Seen.  A watcher didn't see a ghost every night.

The ghost seen this year is tied to the custom of Watching the Church Porch ¾a sighting of a person's spirit foreshadows that person's death within the year. Frightening, but not unusual.  But it is odd, because someone else dies. And in circumstances leaving no doubt the death is murder ¾by a human hand.

The CID Team from the Derbyshire Constabulary begins sorting through motives and opportunities.  There is the minister, who is upset that her daughter has abandoned the church to put her faith in psychics ¾could the minister have killed to bring her daughter back to the flock? And the big-shot television producer. Could he want the ghostly sighting proved true so his documentary on the subject draws a larger viewing audience ¾and increases his status and salary?

Detective-Sergeant Brenna Taylor has issues of her own ¾professional and personal.  She thought she had her future with her boyfriend sorted out, but when her colleague, Mark Salt, enlists her help to break up with his girlfriend, Brenna wonders if it's just an act to get her sympathy ¾and love.

A string of burglaries in the village and a second murder add more pressures for the detectives.  And questions.  Does the village's former police constable volunteer to help the Team because he really wants to be back in the job, or is he there to hinder their investigation? 

When Brenna is authorized to conduct a formal interview of a suspect she accepts the assignment eagerly, believing the Team is finally wrapping up the case. But the questioning ends inconclusively, plunging Brenna into despair.  It isn't until another death and a life is threatened that Brenna finally uncovers the ruthless murderer who has devastated so many families.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cousins House
• Release date: Jan 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386225928

Jo A Hiestand

A month-long trip to England during her college years introduced Jo to the joys of Things British.  Since then, she has been lured back nearly a dozen times, and lived there during her professional folk singing stint.  This intimate knowledge of Britain forms the backbone of both the Peak District mysteries and the McLaren cold case mystery series.  Jo’s insistence for accuracy, from police methods and location layout to the general feel of the area, has driven her innumerable times to Derbyshire for research.  These explorations and conferences with police friends provide the detail filling the books. In 1999 Jo returned to Webster University to major in English.  She graduated in 2001 with a BA degree and departmental honors. Her cat Tennyson shares her St. Louis home.

Book preview

1

The watchers that night who saw only blackness and the suggestion of trees massed against an ebony sky claimed later that they knew something would happen. Some probably cursed their ill luck that they hadn’t chosen the right hour to watch; others probably feigned disappointment but secretly rejoiced that they hadn’t seen it. But one watcher, enveloped in fog and superstition, neither rejoiced nor cursed, viewing the spectacle merely as an eyewitness to the centuries-old custom and accepting the dubious honor that added his name to the meager list of Those Who Had Seen. A watcher didn’t see a ghost every night.

Scott Coral had the dubious honor not only of waking me that Wednesday morning with a disturbing phone call but also of informing me we had a murder inquiry. Normally I would’ve cursed my luck at losing some sleep, but this was the day Graham was due back in our department, and I couldn’t wait to work with him again. Or see him.

I showered, dressed and made the drive to the village of Lesser Holme in record time, my mind already working on the scant facts Scott had relayed. ‘Bloody’—in this instance an adjective, not a swear word—‘unresponsive,’ ‘break-in,’ and ‘cold’ didn’t do much more than mentally paint the scene for me. But it didn’t sound good. As I got out of my car, I waved to Scott, who looked even taller and more authoritative than usual as he stood at ease outside the murder scene.

She’s inside. Scott nodded toward the house. Murdered, if you want my opinion, but I’m just a response driver, not a detective.

Doesn’t matter. I stared at the brick face of the house. It mimicked the others on the street—roughcast dark brick delineating rectangular fronts dotted with multi-paned windows, tile roofs a patchwork of dark browns and blacks, doors of varying colors. Yet, for all the exterior uniformity to its neighbors, it stood apart. A woman had died there. Violently. The house would forever wear the mark of a murder house, to be whispered about and pointed at by the curious public and frightened neighbors. Only the pathologist can pronounce death, Scott.

Seems daft. It’s obvious she’s dead. She’s lying in a pool of blood, a knife wound in her back. His voice trailed off as his eyes sought mine. Standing as he was in the sunlight, his eyelashes cast long shadows across the green irises of his eyes, yet even the shadows couldn’t diminish the amazement and his curiosity shining there. He tucked the tail of his white shirt more firmly into the back of his fatigue trousers—mumbling that it had pulled out slightly when he’d bent over the victim—and shook his head. She could be decapitated and I still can’t state that she’s dead. Daft.

Tell me about your discovery, I said, my attention drawn uncontrollably to the front door. I had no intention of entering the house. Police Constable Byrd had already suited up and was working inside, according to Scott. I’d wait until Graham arrived before deciding what to do.

However, nothing prevented me from looking at the scene. I stood in the open doorway, craning my neck like an SRO concertgoer. Or a rubbernecker passing a road accident. The office, where the body lay, was to my right, thirty feet away, just beyond the front lounge. Since the house sported an open floor plan, the major portion of the crime scene was visible.

The victim, Varian Wells, looked to be around medium height with a thin build. Red, curly shoulder-length hair fanned out over her head, indicating she’d fallen face down and forwards. She was dressed casually in a long skirt in a floral print, tee shirt and sandals. Implying she’d been killed yesterday, before going to bed.

She lay on her stomach, in a vast amount of blood. I took Scott’s word that she had a gash in her back, for at this distance and angle I couldn’t see it. But I could see the knife handle protruding from her back. And the room and its contents: a large wooden desk, computer and printer, several large books stacked on the desk’s edge and on the floor near the swivel chair, and what looked like several handfuls of papers smothering a portion of the desk and the chair. Aside from the mess of papers, the room seemed well kept and would be nice to work in, with its pale blue painted walls, dark blue Venetian blinds, and oriental-style rug. A large poster of a woman gazing into a crystal ball claimed the wall immediately above her desk. Art Deco style, in keeping with the stained glass lamp on the desk.

How’d you find her? I finally asked, tilting my head to look at Scott.

Sort of an odd chain of events. We’d walked some distance from the house, standing by the front gate. By this time, half past seven, the morning sun was peaking above the line of trees to the east and had just touched the farthest section of the main street through the village. It picked out houses and shops in haphazard fashion, anointing its chosen few with a splash of light and a hint of mid-day warmth. I was first at the scene. Byrd came a bit later, suited up, and told me to ring you up.

"Fine, but what brought you?"

"The victim’s friend had been ringing the house for hours. The phone was constantly engaged, which the friend thought odd. We’re talking hours, Brenna. Last night and this morning."

Even the chattiest of girlfriends wouldn’t tie up a phone that long.

The friend came over here and knocked on the door. There was no answer. That worried her because she assumed that if the phone was engaged, her friend should be home and could answer the door. She listened for a few moments but it was too quiet. Odd way to describe it, but that’s what she said. Too quiet.

I glanced again at the front of the structure. The house could’ve been built during Henry VIII’s reign, if one judged by the exuberance of the vegetation smothering its foundation and walls, but by style proclaimed it to be a late Victorian worker’s cottage. Perhaps it’d been built for an estate worker and his family, or a railway worker when the line came to Buxton in the 1860s.

The friend tried calling again, Scott went on. This time on her mobile phone, standing outside the front door. The line was still engaged. Most of the windows had the curtains drawn, and one hadn’t. She couldn’t see inside because she’s short. She finally got so worried that she called the station at six o’clock.

And you got here at half past six.

Hell of an early hour, isn’t it?

I knew what he meant. It was a terrible way for him and the friend to begin their days.

I was dispatched to take a look. I walked around and was able to see in by one of the windows that hadn’t had the curtains drawn. Scott pointed to a window farthest from the road. "I found the bedroom window open. A Crime Scene Investigation tech will have to check for scuff marks on the wall below the window, but it’s low enough that a taller person may not’ve had too hard a time gaining entry that way.

"Anyway, I could see her lying in a great deal of blood. I ran around to the front. Luckily the front door has a vertical inset of glass near the knob. I broke the glass, unlocked the door and gained entry. Since her eyes were open and there was all that blood, I assumed she was dead, but I felt her neck for a pulse. Nothing. I could also tell from the knife and the wound position that she’d been murdered. There was nothing I could do for her at that point.

I radioed in, letting them know I’d found an unresponsive person on the floor. I then cleared the house and

You’re joking. Without backup? I pulled a face, not wanting to think of what could’ve happened to him. What if the killer was still inside? You could’ve been a second victim, Scott. By which I implied the same upheavals to Constabulary morale, the same fears that enveloped friends, family and colleagues. We’d experienced enough of that turmoil in March when Graham had been in hospital. And, though I didn’t say it, if Scott had been seriously injured or killed, I don’t know if I could’ve survived mentally or emotionally.

Scott chugged on as though his safety was of no concern to any of us. "I needed to make certain the house was safe, Bren. I didn’t want him creeping up and attacking me while I examined the body. If the weapon had been a firearm, I might’ve waited for backup, but since a knife had been used—and a kitchen knife, implying the murderer wasn’t a professional and hadn’t brought his own—I felt safe in searching the house. I could’ve held my own in a knife attack.

After I’d cleared the house, I radioed in, cordoned off the residence with crime scene tape, and guarded it until you and Byrd arrived. Having related the episode, his breathing became slower and his face muscles relaxed. There was no suggestion of the humor that permeated many crime scenes, jokes that were needed to distance the officers from the heartbreak of the tragedy. I hated getting that close to the body, but I looked carefully at the floor while I walked up to her. I don’t think I trod on anything vital.

You said it was a kitchen knife? One of hers, I suppose.

Don’t know. I didn’t look around her kitchen. The blade is probably jammed in quite far. I could also tell from the angle of the handle, and therefore the angle of the blade and the thrust of the attack, that it wasn’t a self inflicted wound.

No question of suicide.

Not with the angle and the back wound. It’s virtually impossible you could stab yourself in the back at that location. You’d have to clamp the knife handle in a vice and ram yourself onto the blade with a ton of force to drive it in that deeply. Even if you wedged the knife handle in a chair, say in the crevice between the back and the arm, the knife wouldn’t remain in the correct position when you threw yourself onto it. It was obvious from all those points that we have a murder. The best thing I could do for her was get on with my job. She was past the hand-holding or CPR stage.

I assume the phone was off the hook because she was calling for help, I said, recalling the office scene. Do you know her name?

I didn’t disturb a thing, Brenna. Just ascertained the circumstances and rang up headquarters. The friend that alerted us supplied the victim’s name. It’s Varian Wells.

Varian! I echoed. What an unusual name.

That’s not all that’s unusual. She’s a psychic.

I blinked in amazement. I don’t mean to be crass, but if she was any good I wonder why she couldn’t forecast her own death.

The thought had occurred to me, too.

2

Iducked under the blue-and-white police crime scene tape, leaving Scott to inform PC Byrd that we would be outside. I’d seen the tape dozens of times in my short career, but it looked almost obscene encircling the house. For some inexplicable reason, tape at a public area didn’t bother me as much as cordoning off a home. Maybe it was the tacit statement of intrusion in a place that was supposed to be a sanctuary from Life’s cares, a fortress against the tribulations and evils of humankind. It had failed Varian Wells, for that evil had invaded her shelter and taken her life. And, as such, had made this crime scene more heartbreaking than most to me. I shoved the growing distaste to the back of my mind and followed Scott back to our cars.

Scott returned the roll of crime scene tape to the boot of his car while I rang up Graham. I thought I was immune to the sound of his voice, but as his words flowed warmly into my ear, I knew it was more than joy from talking with a friend that cheered me. It was the relief that consumes you on learning someone is out of danger. With his assurance that he’d be right over, I rang off to find Scott standing beside me.

He was muscular and fit. A personification of his career—a tactical trainer and response driver in the Derbyshire Constabulary, the police force in which I also worked. Except Scott had a demanding physical job dealing with speeders, drunks and robbers who didn’t want to go handcuffed into his patrol car, and I, as a detective-sergeant, only exerted my mental muscles. Scott was also tall, which, in my opinion, gave him the advantage of projecting Serious Authority. For some reason, my red hair and short, slightly overweight stature didn’t speak Police.

Maybe that’s where the demeanor came in, I thought, remembering one of Graham’s talks. I’d had the bearing while a probationary constable, then seemed to lose some of it when I became a detective serving with Graham. I told myself that it was his intelligence that had reduced me to a shrinking violet, but if I were honest I’d admit it was my fear of displeasing him. So I’d begun our work relationship by weighing each response before voicing it, watching him work when I knew I could’ve accomplished similar results. I’d been fearful of showing myself stupid or incompetent in his eyes. But I’d at last found my voice and my assurance, and had pushed ahead to become myself.

Scott eyed me quizzically as I pocketed my mobile phone. Any heart palpitations?

Normally I would’ve blushed, for it would’ve been true last month. But I was learning not only to wean my heart from Graham but also to give it to someone else. I looked at Scott, enjoying a joke now that we were removed from the scene. No flutters. Except that I’m happy he’s back with us.

There’d been a few weeks not long ago when we didn’t know if Graham was going to come back to the job, let alone live. During that time I’d focused on someone else, knowing deep within my heart that I was fighting a losing battle with Graham. Boss-subordinate relationships rarely survived in any job, never mind the Petrie dish of a high stress police career. Does Varian have family? Has anyone spoken with the victim’s friend? She needs to be told.

I don’t know about any family. Just the friend. I’m waiting for a vicar to arrive so we can contact the friend.

Which was standard procedure. Scott’s words grew fainter as I thought of Graham, wondering if he’d ever had to accompany police officers when they informed family members of a loved one’s death. If he had, how did he view this turn-about in roles now that he was the police officer?

The friend’s name is Louise, Scott said, bringing me back to the present. She’s the daughter of the Methodist minister in the village. I’ll hate telling her.

We’d all had to break bad news. But one instance dragged itself out of the murky corners of my mind and replayed itself in full color and surround-sound in such realism that I thought I was reliving it. I’d been in the job a short time, short on experience but full of heart and empathy. I’d made a tragic mistake, to let the mother see the body of her son killed in a car crash. She’d seen him through the barrier of the viewing window at the police morgue, but had begged me literally on her knees to be allowed to go in to kiss him goodbye. It’d taken me twenty minutes to separate them. So yes, Scott, some instances are worse than others, or stay with you to haunt your dreams.

Good thing Louise’s dad is a minister. I forced the shadows back to their depths. That might help her get a grip on Varian’s death.

You’re politically incorrect, but I’ll let it pass.

Pardon?

"It’s mother. The minister. This’ll be interesting when Graham gets here."

As a former Methodist minister, Graham might feel closer to these people. And that might not be good for his memories or for the job. No one at Silverlands, our divisional headquarters, knew why Graham had forsaken his clerical robe. Or if they did, it was kept as secret as the true identity of Jack the Ripper. But amid whispers of ‘improper conduct with a parishioner,’ and ‘giving the Bishop what-for,’ Graham had proved his worth and had quieted, if not eradicated, the gossip.

Scott and I had barely delved into speculating about the crime scene scenario when Graham arrived. He parked his red Honda Insight and rushed up to us, his emerald-green and grey striped tie flapping as he hurried. Although I’d heard he was back at the station, I hadn’t seen him. And despite my affirmation to Scott that I was getting over Graham, I admit that I had a few heart palpitations when I saw him again. Tall and lead-actor handsome, his green eyes mirrored the smile he gave us at his greeting. I ignored my flutterings and welcomed him back to his harness.

Actually, he said, his eyes fixed on me, it’s pleasant to be back, Taylor. Anything’s better than that godawful hospital bed.

We’re glad you’ve recuperated, Sir.

My doctor and the Super will be glad if this is an easy case. I’ve orders from both to take it easy till I get the feel of my wings back. But I’ll be happy to see the team again. It’ll help put last month’s business behind me. I still can’t remember very much about the incident. Do you think that’s what’s holding the nightmares at bay? He angled his head, his eyes examining me for an answer, the sunlight picking out the red accents in his hair. Then, without waiting for my response, he rushed on. Anyway, thank you both for your good work this past March. I know I owe my life to you.

When Scott had briefed Graham on the current situation, we walked up to the house. Scott held the police tape up so Graham could scoot beneath it more easily, then waited while Graham peered in through the open front door. He looked for several minutes, then grabbed his mobile and put a call through to the Home Office pathologist and the video team. He also rang up Silverlands to request Mark and Margo’s presence.

Keeping to the outside of the police tape, Graham walked slowly around the house, noting the open window and the condition of the ground. He stopped again at the front door, perhaps looking at the broken glass where Scott had made entry, perhaps listening to something within the house.

When Graham had inspected the larger scene, Scott and I followed him back to his car where he leaned against the right wing, his hands thrust deeply into his trousers pockets. He seemed content to stand there, taking in the morning, perhaps making plans for the weekend. It was nearly half a minute before he spoke, his eyes fixed on something in the distance. There was a haziness to them, as though he was lost in some pleasant event or focusing on something just out of his memory’s reach. When he finally did speak, his voice had that same languid, soft quality; his words came slowly, as if carefully chosen before uttered.

"When I said a bit ago that I’m not haunted by nightmares from the attack, that was absolutely correct. I am plagued by one recurring dream, however. No, that’s not the right word."

A scene, perhaps? I suggested.

Yes. An image. It’s not really a dream. By that I mean there’s no story as in regular dreams. I have a sense of someone behind me in the wood, then a blur of a face, though whether because it seems to be night in the wood of my dream or because there’s some type of symbolism about darkness and the unknown assailant, I can’t say. He smiled, but his eyes remained hazy, uncertain.

Since you evidently didn’t see your attacker, all you recall is this vague impression. Scott frowned, perhaps trying to envision the scene. Maybe you’re inventing it, maybe not. That’s not important right now. Are you bothered enough by this scene that it wakes you up, or—how shall I say this—upsets you into staying awake?

No lost sleep. I don’t lie on the couch with the lights on, drinking cup after cup of coffee, trying to keep awake.

There is that, then, to be thankful for. If it did—with due respect, Sir—I’d suggest you see a doctor.

Graham muttered that he’d seen enough of doctors and hospital recently to last him until he was ninety, but thanked Scott for his concern.

I glanced at Scott, then looked at Graham. It sounds real enough to have happened, Sir. You know…the setting of the wood, the fact that you recall it was night. We know that’s real, for that’s where we found you. Perhaps you’ll recall more as you recover.

There’s a certain comfort in not knowing. He suddenly smiled. It relieves me of having to work on my own case.

You can’t let your attacker get away with this. He needs to serve time for what he did.

Graham smoothed the end of his tie against his chest and said that he’d try his damnedest to recall the event, but would stop short of employing a clairvoyant.

Funny you should mention that, Sir. Scott reported on the victim.

Graham had time only to shake his head before Mark and Margo arrived. Mark Salt and Margo Lynch are detectives with B Division of the Derbyshire Constabulary, as are Graham and I. When they’d congratulated Graham on his recovery, Scott briefed everyone. Of course, Byrd will know more by now, since he’s inside the house. But that’s the preliminary info.

Lucky Byrd. Margo glanced at the house. She was a brown-eyed brunette with a beauty queen figure, smart and fervent to advance in the job, though she’d confided over a late night cuppa that if she married someone above her in rank, she’d consider going into another career or staying home. Motherhood, as she often told me, was not a gene she possessed. But I thought she’d make a super aunt, spoiling her nieces and nephews with her homemade oat scones or strawberry walnut tea bread, filling them with tales of her days on the Force. Margo exuded friendliness, almost innocence, which disarmed many people she questioned. There was no danger, though, of her becoming personally involved in suspects’ lives; she knew the hazard and set her own boundary.

Scott was about to leave when Graham’s mobile rang. Motioning to Scott to stay for a minute, Graham answered his phone. When he rang off a minute later, he said, That was dispatch. A burglary’s been reported at the village newsagent.

Scott swore. That’s the second offense.

Second time the newsagent’s been hit?

No, Sir. Two offenses in as many days in this village. First was a theft yesterday. I worked that one.

Well, now the village has been hit again. Pity. This seems a very quiet spot. What’s here…a handful of stores? He looked down Top Lane, as though he expected to see the entire village laid out like a map or picture postal card before him.

The village of Lesser Holme lay in the confines of the Hope Valley, in a crescent-shaped dell off the south side of the road connecting Hope with Castleton. It also lay in the Peak District National Park of Derbyshire, a vast expanse of preserved acreage that included villages, mountains, caverns, dales and rivers. Lesser Holme enjoyed a secluded existence, sheltered by limestone cliffs to the west and a vast wood to the south and east. A small brook gurgled its way through the village’s outskirts, giving rise to dense patches of fern, moss and burdock by the water’s edge. Trout and grayling lurked in the cool depths, a vague suggestion among the stones and waving strands of floating sweet grass.

Cast-off branches on the forest floor would be spotted with the orange-pink pimples of coral-spot fungus, and black-ringed oyster fungus would appear in autumn, its white, bunched fans brilliant in the early October dusk. There would be wildflowers around the perimeter of the wood, the lilac-colored heath speedwell, the blue water forget-me-not, the white sweet woodruff adding color and a sense of cultivation to the wild, inner recesses of the forest. Fly agaric, the familiar red cap toadstool speckled with white, so prevalent in mixed woodland, had whispered ‘death’ to me even from my childhood and today still conjured up scenes from Hansel and Gretel. Witches’ butter was no better: black, viscous globules mimicking brains that clung in mounds on oaks and other deciduous trees. These fungi were the things of childhood nightmares, yet beckoned the naturalist in me to sketch and study them.

In the village proper, two roads intersected in a graceful X to form the backbone along which houses and businesses clung. Top Lane, which housed the victim’s dwelling, crossed the main thoroughfare, Fall Back Road, at the newsagent’s. Across the street, the local pub stood, ancient, weathered and central in the village’s life. The Methodist chapel perched on top of the hill farther down Top Lane, enjoying a view of the pub and other businesses below. It wasn’t that it looked down on the pub’s clients; it was situated so that humans would raise their gazes upward to heaven. A subtle subliminal message.

Graham’s ‘handful of stores,’ to which he’d jokingly referred, contained the afore-mentioned newsagent, greengrocer and pub, as well as a dozen or so other small businesses. Most of the village seemed to consist of residences spread along the two roads that eventually disappeared into the wood or around the mountain. It seemed a peaceful community, until theft and murder had stained it, but the brook hadn’t noticed; it splashed its way nonchalantly and eventually to the sea.

The road, too, meandered westward to the sea, wandering about the Derbyshire Dales and its ancient villages, bee lining through towns and cities, finally curling itself along the coast. It’d relinquished its arboreal scents and delights hours and miles ago, before it had outgrown its B road origins to swell into the M62. But at Fleetwood, perhaps, or Conwy or Mockbeggar Wharf, it seemed content to return to its rural roots and revel in the pungency of salt sea air and screeching gulls.

And that previous theft, Coral? Graham relinquished his look of the road running through the village and mentally returned to the present case.

Contained to the outside stalls of vegetables and fruit of the greengrocer. Some things were taken.

Kids. Mark screwed up the corner of his mouth.

That’s what the owner thinks. Scott nodded. There were no signs of forced entry to the store proper. Just the pillage of the outdoor stalls.

So he’s no idea of the time of the theft, then.

No. He discovered the fruit gone yesterday morning. It’s a misdemeanor if he doesn’t find anything else stolen. Hardly worth mentioning, really.

Well, no matter if it’s a misdemeanor or felony, you’ve been dispatched to the newsagent. Graham slipped his mobile into his trousers pocket.

The experienced eye is called for, yes.

And Margo, Graham added as Scott turned to leave. Why don’t you go with him? Investigate the newsagent burglary. You’ve not really started this murder inquiry, and the two crimes will give you an arena in which to shine.

Margo thanked him and scooted into Scott’s car. But I’d seen the smile in her eyes and had discerned the excitement in her voice. She had a case to work on that didn’t involve delving into people’s financial statements. It was hands-on detective work and a chance to work away from Graham’s stress-inducing gaze.

When she and Scott had driven off, I asked Graham if he was certain he was fit enough to be working. "Meaning no disrespect, Sir, but you are famous for your long hours. None of us want to see you back in hospital."

He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Physically I’m fine. It’s just…

Your dream, or flashback?

It’s oddly unnerving. I don’t remember much, just that I was walking in the vicinity of the church near the wood. I do recall, though, I heard a noise.

Someone stepping on a dry twig? Someone breathing?

"That’s the infuriating part, Taylor. It’s too nebulous. It can’t have been an animal at that time of night with me out there. Every marauding nocturnal mammal would’ve given me a wide berth. It had to have been my attacker. Seconds