The underbrush rustled somewhere to her left. Too loud for a deer. Too clumsy for a coyote. Her hand drifted to the Maglite she kept tucked beside her on the hood — because flashlights worked just fine as weapons when you swung them hard enough.

Scott stumbled into the clearing, his eyes wide, pupils blown so dark they swallowed the color of his iris. He was pale. Sweating. His hands were shaking, and there was a gash on his forearm that looked fresh — still seeping blood through his torn jacket sleeve.

He wouldn’t meet her eyes. And Stiles — Stiles was never quiet, but right now he was babbling, filling the silence with noise that didn’t mean anything. It was the kind of noise he made when he was trying to hide something.