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PIPER
I cameto this cabin in the Colorado wilderness outside Vail because I needed an escape from life. The kind that only a secluded, way-too-big-for-one-person mountain retreat can provide. My brother-in-law Ian bought the thirty-acre property when he moved to Skylark after retiring from the NFL. I guess being quarterback royalty includes a six-thousand-square-foot log-and-stone “getaway” for when you want a break from small-town Colorado life.
I’m not complaining.
I also came alone because I didn’t want any witnesses to my spectacular life implosion. While my plan involved wallowing in the—well, I wouldn’t call it misery, more like the terrifying uncertainty of my current situation—I didnotcome to be murdered in the middle of the night by a high-country killer.
Yet, here we are.
I’m not ready to die. Not even at my lowest did I feel that desperate.
Not when I saw my ex-fiancé Bradley at the hospital yesterday, smugly cozying up to his new bride. The one he’d started dating approximately five seconds after I called off ourwedding last summer. The wedding I walked away from in the middle of the rehearsal dinner because I finally realized he’s a condescending douche canoe who treated me like an accessory rather than a person.
I didn’t get the memo that he’d returned to our shared hometown of Skylark, Colorado. And I sure as shit didn’t know that he and the new Mrs. Bradley Carlson, a nurse like me, would be working at our small-ish community hospital where I couldn’t avoid them if I tried.
I can’t blame my entire meltdown on Bradley. That would be giving him too much power over me, and I vowed never again to let a man take my power that way. But it’s been a rough month—longer if I’m being honest. Seeing them together in the break room, a diamond the size of a small planet on her left hand, was the last straw. I quit on the spot, packed a bag, and fled to Ian and Sadie’s cabin before the Skylark rumor mill could start churning.
So I’m alone as I creep down the darkened staircase, my bare feet silent on the hardwood steps and my would-be killer rattling the front doorknob, wielding a tennis shoe in one hand and my e-reader in the other.
One to use as a weapon, the other as a potential shield. Because—once more for the bitches in the back—I don’t want to die tonight.
Although I’d really hate to lose my new Kindle, the fancy one with the warm light setting. I highly doubt whether it could stop either a bullet or a knife swipe, but it seemed like a better option than a feather pillow from the guest bedroom where I’m sleeping. To be fair, the pillows are those fancy European ones that probably cost more than my monthly student loan payment, so who knows what they could do in a pinch.
If I make it through this night, I swear on all that is holy, I’ll go back to leaving my phone on the nightstand when I sleep. I’ve been reading too much about blue light and beta waves, or whatever the hell it is that a phone emits, and while I’m not going to don atinfoil hat any time soon, I figured keeping the phone in the kitchen would be a smart choice.
Being able to call 911 would have been preferable at the moment, but it is what it is.
My Jeep is parked in the attached garage, so if I can get to it before the intruder gets inside, maybe I’ll have a chance at escaping. The keys are on the hook by the mudroom, because I’m organized like that.
I hear the soft snick of the door opening, and a deep voice mutters something about fucking light switches.
So much for getting out before he gets in. Back to Plan A, whatever the heck that was.
“Don’t move,” I shout, pitching my voice low like I’m the threat. Which is ridiculous because I’m currently scared out of my mindandpants-less.
“The fuck?”
The killer doesn’t sound particularly cowed or predatory. More like...annoyed?
There’s a sliver of light coming in the front window—the June moon is nowhere near full—and all I can see is the hulking outline of one giant of a man.
Adrenaline spikes, and I think about how much I have to live for. Topping the list is the fact that I’m right now growing a tiny human inside me. A baby who deserves better than to have their mom taken out by a home invader.
“Yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker!” I shout as I hurl the tennis shoe in the man’s direction. Apparently, when faced with death, I channelDie Hard.
I played soccer and volleyball in high school—I wasn’t exactly All-State material, but I made varsity in both sports all four years and have decent aim. The shoe connects with a satisfying thwack, followed by a string of curses that would make a sailor blush.
This is my chance. I bound down the rest of the stairs and turn the corner toward the back of the house just as thelights flip on. The sudden brightness is blinding, and I blink rapidly, trying to adjust.
“What the fuck, Piper?”
Nearly to the kitchen, I stop mid-stride and whirl around, which knocks me off balance. I windmill my arms to keep from face-planting. That would be bad given the potential for general humiliation plus the pesky detail of me not wearing pants.
And suddenly I’m facing the last man—potential murderer, notwithstanding—I want to see right now.
Relief washes over me, my body not quite on the same page as my brain, and my knees give out as Felix Barlowe, my brother-in-law’s huge, handsome, star NFL wide receiver brother stalks toward me. All six-foot-four inches of him. With his stupid perfect jawline and his stupid dark hair that looks like he just rolled out of bed. The same hair I ran my fingers through that night in Denver when we…
