Gwen scanned the debris-strewn floor. Her gaze settled on a peppering of bullet casings scattered near the far wall. Not a few, not a handful—dozens, maybe more. She crouched, pinching one between her fingers, turning it over as if the answer might be engraved on the casing itself. Nearby, footprints overlapped in what looked like a lot of running. Some were large and deep, heavy—likely the werewolf's. Others were smaller, human perhaps, hurried and disorganized. Gwen straightened and followed the trail to where it led outside.
She saw tire tracks stamped into the dirt just beyond the building's exit. Flat tread marks stretched out in parallel lines toward the empty street ahead. She crossed her arms, letting the pieces of evidence settle in her mind like puzzle fragments searching for their fit—the streaks of blood on the floor in conjunction with those footprints; the blown-out wall that screamed brute force; these scattered shell casings and now these tire tracks.
