SIX MONTHS LATER
Ihum along to the music spilling out of the speakers, some old pop song that was popular when I was in college. Penelope, Chloe, and I used to dance to it during late nights when we smuggled wine and weed into the dorm, and it always makes me think of them.
They know about Rowan now. Well, most of it. There are some things you can’t share over Zoom calls, but the next time we’re together in person—maybe. I don’t like keeping secrets from them.
I move around the body on the examination table. A woman named Mildred Morris from the nearby retirement home, dead from a stroke. I already found the clot that blocked the blood flowing to her brain, and I’m moving through the rest of the autopsy on autopilot. I’ve got a bit of a backlog, although things are settling down now that Rosado has finally elected a new sheriff. A woman, surprisingly, one of Kaplan’s captains who came forward with evidence that he had covered up at least three murders. She’d been investigating him, it seems.
I like her enough that I told Rowan he has to take his kills out of the county, so I don’t have to cover for him. And of course he agreed.
After all, he doesn’t need them to speak to me anymore, does he?
My phone’s timer goes off, startling me out of my thoughts. It’s 6:30 P.M., and although I need to catch up on my backlog, that timer is sacrosanct. It tells me when to stop for the day.
Nervous excitement flutters around in my belly.
I turn it off and clean up my work as quickly as I can, then slide Mildred back into her refrigeration unit. I wash my hands, scrubbing them with soap until they feel tight and antiseptic. The whole time, my excitement builds up. I’ve always liked winter—the empty beaches, the cooler weather. But now, I like the early dark, too.
As soon as I’m done, I do a once-over to check that everything is in its place. Then I go out and lock up the examination room and head outside by way of the back door.
The night is chilly and windswept, and I wish I had thrown on a sweater before coming out here. Not that it matters. I’ll be plenty warm in no time.
I switch on my phone’s flashlight and shine it out into the surrounding trees, flashing it over the dark, bare branches. “Here I am,” I murmur, knowing he can hear me. It’s shocking, the things Rowan knows and senses. But exciting, too.
I walk around the side of the house, my heart beating fast. All I can hear is the wind, howling as it blows through the trees. By the time I get to my flower garden—dead for the winter, full of old, dried-up stems that I leave out for the insects—I’m shivering, my arms wrapped tight around my chest. But I don’t go inside.
Something crackles behind me, and I whip around, shining my flashlight. My fear blooms a little, although it’s not real fear.It’s horror movie fear. Haunted house fear. The kind of thrilling fear you experience when you know you aren’t really in danger.
“Hello?” I call out, my voice catching on the wind. “Is someone out there?”
I already know the answer, but it’s still fun to pretend.
More rustling footsteps. I whip around again, bringing the flashlight with me. And this time, I’m rewarded with a brief glimpse of a dark figure in a twisted mask.
My excitement surges. So does an anticipatory heat between my legs.
Then I take off running.
I bound across the front yard, pumping my arms and legs through the cold, gusting wind. Footsteps fall into a rhythm behind me. He’s going slow. Giving me time to try and get away from him.
I havenevergotten away from him, and I don’t ever want to.
I slam up against the gate of the cemetery and drop my phone into the grass, face down so the flashlight shoots a column of light up around the fence. I fumble with the unlocked latch and swing the gate open, feeling his presence behind me, nameless and faceless. I risk one glance over my shoulder and find him standing on the curb, watching me in the dark.
I duck through the gate and run into the cemetery.
Rowan follows.
This time, he isn’t going slow. I run as fast as I can, my body stiff from the cold, but he’s always faster. His heavy boots pound against the dirt, and I weave through the tombstones, zig-zagging my way toward the row of pecan trees.
I don’t make it. Strong arms grab my waist and pull me backward, my feet lifting off the grass. I shriek in surprise, but a gloved hand slaps across my mouth, muffling me. I moan into the familiar leather and slump back against his sturdy body, already squirming with need.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Rowan rasps into my ear.
It’s funny, how different he sounds when he’s wearing the mask—his killing face, he still calls it sometimes, although that’s rare. And getting rarer, the longer we’re together.
“Let me go,” I say into the glove, my words muffled. Lies, and we both know it.
Rowan chuckles. “I don’t think so.”
