"I'm not missing. I'm right here."
"You're a victim of an abduction. The NYPD is looking for you. Your face is all over the news, and you're sitting in my truckwearing my clothes while I stockpile ammunition and lie to law enforcement." I take a breath, trying to calm down. "This is bad, Sloane, really bad."
She's quiet for a long moment. When she speaks again, her voice shakes a little. She's finally getting the severity of this and I don't like the way it makes her blanch like a ghost. "What do we do?"
"You change your appearance. Hair color, different style, maybe contacts to change your eye color. Enough that a casual observer won't connect you to the woman on TV." I hate saying it, but it's the only way and it might not even work.
"No."
"No?" I repeat, sure I misheard.
"I'm not morphing into some different person just because you're paranoid." Her arms cross tighter. "I barely know you, Dane. We've slept together, sure. But that doesn't mean I'm going to alter my entire identity for you. How do you know they'll even kill me?"
The anger flares hotter this time. "This isn't about feeling safer. Did you forget the second little gift this fucker sent us? He's been stalking you."
"He's doing it to taunt you." She huffs and turns to stare out the window, going so far as to angle her shoulders so they face away from me.
"You're being naive."
Her hazel eyes are blazing now. "You've spent five years hiding, becoming someone else, burying who you used to be. Maybe that works for you, but I'm not built that way. I can't just erase Sloane Grady and pretend she never existed."
"Then you're going to get us both killed."
She's quiet the rest of the drive, but the tension doesn't lessen at all. After what Sheriff Carver insinuated, I'm too upset to put into words the things I'm thinking, so I shut my mouth too in favor of keeping the peace.
We pull into the driveway, and I take the long route around the property, checking for disturbances, for tracks in the dirt, for any sign someone's been here. Then I park near the barn and kill the engine, and we sit there in silence loaded like a shotgun.
"I understand why you're angry," she finally says. "I do. But I needed to tell Erin I'm alive so she wasn't blaming herself for what happened that night. You can be mad at me for that, but I'm not apologizing."
Sloane slides out of the truck and slams the door, and I sit there for a second to clear my head. If the local law enforcement really does come sniffing, she's gonna have to play a better part than the one she's been playing. I'll admit the rustic version of her might not be as polished as the version of her on the TV, but Carver's not stupid. He understands women clean up well and flannel looks different on a woman's curves than those suits and lab coats she's been shown wearing on the news. Her going to that Halloween party wearing that dress didn’t help.
I grab the ammunition from the truck bed, along with the package Miles dropped off this morning. Another installment in Cal's twisted game. I carry everything toward the barn, needing space away from her before I say something I'll regret.
"Where are you going?" she calls after me.
"Barn. I need to check something."
"Dane—"
"Just go inside, Sloane. Lock the door. I'll be in soon."
I don't wait for her response and she doesn't say a word to me. I reach the barn and duck inside. It's cold and dark, and I set the ammunition on the workbench and turn my attention to the package.
I'm getting sick of these things popping up, and by now I know they're not going to stop until he's done with his mind fuckery. Every one of them adds another layer to this puzzle that confuses me. It's like he's trying to torment me and make me slip up or make a mistake. Or maybe he feels tortured too, knowing I'm the one who pulled that trigger and killed his father.
It's not like he doesn't remember who I am. I held his fucking bike seat when he pedaled off the first time, letting his dad have a seat for a moment. Domingo and I did things together like normal men, drank beer, threw darts, and his kid—fuck. I shake my head. Cal just wants me to suffer the way he suffered. And to the part of my heart that’s not shriveled and dead yet, it's working.
Inside the box is a glass Christmas ornament, the kind you'd hang on a tree. But instead of being hollow or filled with glitter, this one contains ash. Gray and black fragments, bone mixed with soot, compressed into the small space, and there's a tooth in the mix.
I don't need a note this time. I know exactly what this is.
I suck in a deep breath and blow it out cautiously. The mid-level banker who crossed Don Ferraro was supposed to be home alone. I didn't know he had a kid in the apartment with him. When I found out, it nearly took me out. I almost drank myselfto death and Domingo was the one who pulled me back. Cal's sending a message that I did his father wrong, because when I needed him, he was there. But when he needed me, I had him in my crosshairs.
I set the ornament down carefully, afraid it might shatter and scatter ash across the workbench. My hands are shaking from the grief and the crushing weight of guilt I thought I'd buried five years ago. That kid didn't deserve what I did, and though Domingo did deserve every bit of it, it shouldn’t have been me.
This has to stop. I can't keep opening these packages, reliving every terrible thing I've done. But I can't go to the police either. These aren't just reminders—they're evidence. Any one of them could send me to prison for life. All of them together would ensure I never see daylight again.
Cal knows that. He's been carefully choosing items that could incriminate me as much as they torment me. If I turn them in, I'm admitting to murders the authorities don't even know about.
