Rose Tremayne's Arc

Chapter 6 of 6

Rose watched Blackbeak drop the plastic bottle at the wrong doorstep for the third time that morning. The crow had tracked the litterer's scent to an apartment building, but couldn't tell which unit matched the smell. The bottle rolled across the concrete and stopped against a stranger's door. Rose clicked her tongue in frustration. Her system worked on hiking trails where people were spread out, not in crowded buildings where dozens of scents mixed together. She'd sent the crows after a woman who'd tossed trash near the pavilion yesterday, but now an innocent neighbor would find garbage on their doorstep instead. Blackbeak tilted his head, waiting for direction she couldn't give. The mission had failed. Her crows could shame polluters in the forest, but the sanctuary's edges touched places where her methods fell apart. She walked back toward the pavilion to clear her head. The ceramic planter lay shattered near the benches, soil scattered across the stone. Blue and white chevron pieces mixed with wilted petunias. Rose crouched beside the wreckage. She'd placed that planter there last week, hoping to add color where volunteers gathered. Someone had knocked it over—maybe the same woman the crows couldn't track. Maybe someone else entirely. The damage stung worse than the failed mission. Her work kept getting undone. Rose spotted something wedged under the pavilion bench. She pulled out a weathered leather briefcase, mud caked on its hinges. Papers peeked through torn corners. One-Eye landed beside her and pecked at the brass clasp. She opened it carefully. Water had damaged most pages, but she could still read phrases: "dumping schedule," "northern access road," "avoid patrol hours." Her pulse quickened. Someone had been planning to pollute sanctuary land and lost their evidence. But without knowing who owned the briefcase, the proof meant nothing. She carried the briefcase back to her cabin and set it on the porch. The rustic bird feeder hanging from the eave swayed in the breeze, wooden slats creaking on their rope ties. Seeds scattered across the steps as finches fed. Rose sat down heavily. She had evidence of a planned crime but no criminal. She had a litterer's trash but no way to return it. She had a broken planter and no proof of who smashed it. The crows gathered on her roof—Blackbeak, One-Eye, Grumbles, all waiting for commands she didn't have. For the first time in years, Rose didn't know what move to make next. The forest felt smaller, her methods weaker, her mission slipping through her fingers like those scattered seeds.