For one disoriented heartbeat, I wonder if I imagined the whole thing—if the late hour and too many true crime podcasts have finally caught up with me.
My gaze lands on what I can only describe as a nightmare brought to life a few feet away. A tall, broad-shouldered man, face hidden by the shadows, stands over a slumped figure with a knife in his hand, glinting with blood.
I should run. Or look away, but I can’t. I squint down at the body at the man’s feet. He’s lying face-down on the weathered boards, his body sprawled out in the weak glow of the porchlight, one arm outstretched toward the door as though he’d tried to crawl away.
Blood spreads beneath him in a dark, glistening pool, black as oil in the dim light.
The man who needed help—he’s dead. That man in the shadows killed him.
Every muscle locks up, my entire body turning to stone. Mentally, I know I need to run, to escape whoever this person is, but my brain is frozen. The man moves, stepping over the body at his feet like it’s not even there.
You’re next.That’s all I can think.You’re next.
My bottom lip trembles, and I silently scream at myself to move—to do something, anything. When he steps into the glow of the porch light, I glimpse the killer’s face.
Dear Lord, it’s not a stranger after all.
It’s Calder Bishop.
The name pounds like a second heartbeat in my head, dread and memory colliding.
The first-aid kit slips from my nerveless fingers, clattering against the porch with a hollow plastic thud. The water and blanket follow suit.
This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.
Air catches hard in my throat, the sound too loud in the charged silence.
Calder’s icy-blue eyes meet mine, and I don’t know why I do it, but I search for some resemblance to the man who looked at me with unexpected heat a year ago when I made the horrible mistake of kissing him. To the man who picked me up when I broke my wrist and told me everything would be okay.
It’s obvious that part of him is dead. The man in front of me might as well be a stranger. His gaze assesses me with the detached interest of a wolf sizing up potential prey. I tear away from the eye contact and notice the blood on his face.Oh God.My stomach clenches at the sight. The blood isn’t only on his face but also on his hands, shirt, and the front of his jeans.
Danger. Run. Saint. Move.
Instinct finally takes over, and I stumble backward—heavy, clumsy, as if boulders are tied to my legs—and nearly trip over the threshold.Keep going.Whirling around, I bolt back into the house. The slap of my bare feet against the hardwood echoes through the house, loud and frantic. Every breath burns in my chest.
Where do I go?
The kitchen—that’s my only chance. From there, through the back door. Then into the woods.
He closes the distance between us, his boots beating against the wood, his steps faster, so much faster than mine.
“Saint!” He yells my name, but I don’t stop or look back. I race into the kitchen, and the moonlight spilling through the window lights a path to freedom. I just have to get there.
Three steps.
My lungs burn.
Two.
My heart slams against my ribs.
One—
Fingers clamp around my arm, jerking me back, and a scream claws its way out of my throat, filling the air with a piercing cry that sounds more animal than human.
Fight him.
Don’t give up.
