* * *
Nicolas drove for over an hour before taking a freeway exit to Santa Clarita. I was one lane over and nearly got creamed by a semi going far too fast in the slow lane when I merged, but I managed to take the same exit at the last second.
Keeping at least three cars between us at all times, I stayed behind him. It was harder to do here because I was less familiar with Santa Clarita than I was with Los Angeles. Everything seemed surreal, like something out of a nightmare—too technicolor-bright to be real.
But that didn’t matter. All that mattered was the gray Mercedes in front of me.
Nicolas led me to a half-completed subdivision on the outskirts of town—one of those awful cookie-cutter developments with playgrounds, rolling green lawns, and nearly identical houses. Except only half of them had actually been built.
I wasn’t foolish enough to follow him in.
Instead, I drove past.
I parked halfway down the street and waited five minutes, watching the digital clock on my dashboard tick forward, trying to control my breathing.
Then it struck me—abruptly—that I had never followed anyone before. Not once in my life had I tailed someone.
But I had known how, without even questioning it.
Even as I thought this, a dim memory came to me. I used to be a private investigator. Not long ago, either. I’d made a career out of taking photographic evidence of scumbags cheating on their spouses. Following people had been one of the things I’d had to learn. I’d owned a Buick sedan that smelled like cigarettes and eaten most of my meals out of a fast-food bag. It had been hot and humid where I was. Everyone around me had a drawl at the end of their words, and there had been bugs half the size of my fist.
Georgia.
I had lived in Georgia.
I rubbed my temples. The memory was sharp and sudden, striking as quickly as a heartbeat. But none of this could really be happening.
Could it?
And what was I even doing?
I was lying to myself, wasn’t I?
This wasn’t really about seeing Nicolas in action at all. It was aboutstoppinghim from hurting anyone. I wasn’t here because I suddenly hated him. I was here because I still lovedhim. Because I needed to fight for him. And maybe—as insane as it was—deep down, I was hoping I could make myself accept Nicolas if I saw what he did with my own eyes.
It wasn’t exactly a comfortable thought to have.
Even after knowing what Nicolas was—a murderer—I was still here.
Because I loved him.
At last, when I was convinced Nicolas had entered whatever home he’d come here for, I started the car again, turned around, and drove into the half-finished subdivision.
I was acutely aware that there were very few cars in the driveways of the finished homes as I drove past. It was the middle of the day and most residents were likely at work. Which meant no witnesses. No one to help me if I ended up being very wrong about Nicolas and what he was capable of. If Nicolas decided he wanted two meals instead of one.
There were three houses at the end of a cul-de-sac that had been completed, but I only saw one car in a driveway—a gray Mercedes. Nicolas had parked at the last house on the left. The irony wasn’t lost on me.
I pulled close to the house and hesitated, the car idling. Now that I was here, I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to do this anymore. I tried to tell myself it was because of how ridiculously unsafe the situation was. That I was afraid. And I was.
But not for my safety.
I was afraid of what I’d find in there.
Besides, it was one thing to follow him. It was another thing entirely to break into a stranger’s home and try to surprise a murderous vampire in the act of feeding.
That was insane.
Because that’s what this was, wasn’t it? Insanity. Nicolas had upended my world, and now I couldn’t see anything elseproperly. He had blotted out everything: sunlight, safety, and sanity, until there was only him.
