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)
As if the moment couldn’t get any worse, I see a mop of orange curls on top of a silky dress making its way up the driveway.
“Are you kidding me?” I whisper, mostly under my breath, but Shephard glances at me.
“Who is she?”
“Hi!” she sings, waving a wild hand. “Just going for a stroll and thought I heard children!”
“The neighbor. Owner of the house.”
Saint’s eyes dart back to mine just as Mari reaches him. “Hello, there, Officer. Lovely to see you again.” Mari’s eyes move toward Shephard. “And who are you?” she asks, reaching out a hand as she ascends the steps. “I’m Mari.”
“Shephard. I’m Petra’s husband.”
Mari stops in her tracks. She looks at me. Then at Saint. Then back at Shephard. Then back at me. “Oh. How fun.”
Kill me now.
“I’ll be heading out,” Saint says, bringing me my first sigh of relief since Shephard showed up today. He tips his hat toward me, a slow, deliberate gesture, his eyes never leaving mine, drilling into me, holding me captive. “You two have a lovely night.” There’s something about the way he says it, that subtle curve of his mouth, like he’s amused by all this, by my terror, by Shephard’s cluelessness.
Then he turns and gives Mari a tip of his hat, his movements fluid and unhurried, and walks back toward his car, each step measured, like he knows exactly the impact he’s having, exactly how deeply he’s burrowing under my skin. He gets inside the black vehicle, a silent, predatory glide. The air in my lungs feels thin, inadequate, but I exhale as much of it as I can afford to let out.
“And who are these two?” Mari asks, gesturing toward the doorway, where the girls are now standing.
“Andi and Chloe,” I say, my words clipped. “Mari, do you think you could come by another time? We were about to sit down to dinner.”
She blinks several times. Too many times. “I sure can. Just wanted to introduce myself to your company.” She looks toward Shephard. “If you need anything, please let me know. We’re just at the end of the road.”
“Sure will,” Shephard says.
As soon as Mari turns, I walk back inside the cabin, my hands shaking so violently I have to press them against my sides to control them as I close the door behind us. The latch clicks with an exaggerated finality. My legs feel weak, like they might give out at any second, so I go straight for the wine rack, my trembling hands grabbing the bottle with a desperate urgency.
I pour myself a glass, the red liquid sloshing slightly over the rim. My thoughts are a jumbled mess of pure panic, searing regret, and the gnawing, terrifying realization that this situation is spiraling out of control faster than I can possibly manage, faster than I can even comprehend.
Shephard returns to the stove, shaking his head with a bewildered smile, a picture of blissful ignorance. “That was weird,” he says, his voice light, tinged with amusement, like he’s already dismissed the strange encounter, already moved past it and tucked it away into the “odd occurrences” file of his mind. He lights the flame under the pan again and stirs the pot on the stove, the garlic scent suddenly overwhelming, his back to me as he talks, his shoulders relaxed. “Wonder why they’re getting so strict around here all of a sudden.”
“I don’t know,” I mutter. My voice is tight, my throat constricted, dry and scratchy, but I force the response out, trying to sound as casual, as unbothered, as possible.
Shephard walks over to me, and his arms wrap around me in a warm, familiar embrace. He pulls me close, pressing a kiss to the top of my head, the scent of him, clean, comforting, safe, momentarily grounding me, even though my insides are still rattled, a chaotic tempest.
“I guess it’s a good thing with you being out here all alone,” he says, his voice soft, full of concern and love, a protective rumble in his chest. He’s trying to reassure me, to make me feel safe, to be my anchor, but his words only make the panic claw deeper into my chest, a cold, sharp blade twisting. The irony is a bitter laugh caught in my throat. Alone. I have been far from alone.
I force a tight smile, the muscles in my face aching with the effort, nodding against him. “Yeah. It’s . . . comforting,” I say, the words coming out hollow, empty, devoid of any genuine emotion. I say that in my most convincing voice, the one I use for book signings and interviews, but every syllable feels like a blatant, painful lie. There’s nothing comforting about any of this. Not Saint showing up unannounced, not the chilling way he looked at me, not his deliberate lie, and certainly not the looming, terrifying threat of everything I’ve built, everything I cherish, crumbling down around me like a house of cards in a hurricane.