Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 105667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
I want to scream, to tell Saint to leave, to go back to wherever he came from, but I’m frozen. Paralyzed.
Why else would Saint be here? There’s no good reason, no benign explanation that doesn’t lead straight to the truth spilling out in the most catastrophic, painful way possible. He’s here for a reason, a calculated, devastating reason, and whatever that reason is, it’s going to end me.
Shephard steps out onto the porch, a picture of genial hospitality, and I remain frozen in the doorway, my hand gripping the doorframe for support, my knuckles white. My legs feel weak, like they might give out at any second, but I force myself to stand still, to hold my ground, to remain upright. I can’t let either of these men see how terrified I am. I can’t let Shephard know I have anything at all to feel guilty for, and I can’t let Saint know how much power he holds right now.
Saint glances at Shephard, a brief, dismissive flick of his eyes; then his gaze, cold and sharp, cuts to me. The look in his eyes is hard, unreadable, like polished obsidian, but there’s something in the set of his jaw, the tightness around his mouth, that makes my heart sink even lower, plummeting into the pit of my stomach.
He’s in full uniform, crisp and impeccable, a perfect mask of professionalism. The badge gleams, the dark fabric of his shirt accentuating the breadth of his shoulders, the holstered gun a stark, chilling presence.
But his eyes—they’re locked on me, zeroed in with an intensity like laser beams piercing my very soul. He knows exactly what he’s doing, like he’s fully aware of the precise chaos he’s about to unleash, the emotional fallout he’s meticulously planned. His jaw is hard, a rigid line, his expression severe, almost menacing, and I can’t breathe. I can’t even move. I am a statue of dread.
“Sorry to bother you folks,” Saint says, his voice perfectly modulated, the picture of professional courtesy. But I can hear the testiness in it, a subtle, almost imperceptible undertone. He slowly brings his gaze to Shephard, his eyes lingering on me for just a second longer than necessary, a deliberate, silent promise of destruction.
Saint stops at the bottom step, his presence looming large even from a distance, radiating an unnerving power. “I’m just doing a standard patrol of the area and noticed you don’t have a visitor tag.” His words are casual, almost too casual, delivered with an ease that is utterly chilling.
Shephard tilts his head, confusion flickering across his face, a slight furrow appearing between his brows. “Visitor tag?” His voice is laced with surprise, a genuine bewilderment. I can see him trying to make sense of what’s happening, trying to fit this odd interaction into his comfortable, predictable world. He shrugs slightly. “We’ve been coming here for years.”
Saint nods, his expression never faltering, a perfect, unwavering mask. “New county ordinance. All vehicles traveling in and out of the area now require a visitor tag. Standard procedure, just implemented this month.”
Shephard lets out a short, surprised laugh at the absurdity of needing a tag just to be here, on a public lake that isn’t even an official park. His chuckle is light and dismissive, as if he’s trying to brush off the strange encounter with casual humor.
I can’t even fake a smile right now. My mouth feels dry, like cotton, my hands trembling slightly as I clasp them together in front of me, trying to steady myself, trying to anchor myself in this rapidly destabilizing reality.
I know Saint is lying. Every fiber of my being screams it. There’s no requirement for a visitor tag in this area, and there never has been. We’ve been coming to this lake for years, and not once have we ever had to deal with something like this. He’s playing a dangerous game.
It’s a risky lie, an incredibly audacious one, that sends my mind spinning with a sickening mixture of questions and dread. What is he thinking? Does he really expect Shephard to believe this blatant fabrication? And more importantly, what’s his plan? What’s the next move in this terrifying chess game?
Saint has no idea how much Shephard does or doesn’t know about the local laws, or how much attention he pays to minor ordinances. He’s gambling on the hope that Shephard will take him at his word, that he’ll be too distracted or too trusting, too polite, to question it. And for a split second, a terrifying, hopeful second, I think it might work. Shephard doesn’t seem suspicious—just confused, a mild annoyance creasing his forehead.
“I didn’t realize,” Shephard says, his tone still casual, but there’s a slight furrow in his brow as he turns around to look at me, seeking confirmation. His expression is full of mild confusion, but there’s no alarm, no suspicion, no accusation. “Did you know this, Pet?”