Once I hang up with Eve, I return to my coffee and my book.
I read for another hour, then busy myself around the house trying to make it look more … human.
I dig out and unbox all the kitchen items I might need from the pantry, including a toaster, a blender, and a very expensive set of pots and pans. Why Ezra even has these things is beyond me. I guess you can’t live as long as he has without being prepared.
Once the kitchen is situated, I order groceries and a salad for lunch using my own credit card. As sweet as Ezra’s gesture is, I don’t want to take advantage of his kindness.
While I eat my salad, I glance out of the huge kitchen window and notice a patch of beautiful wildflowers blooming in Ezra’s front yard. I’m hypnotized by the small patch of rainbow-colored flora swaying lazily in the breeze.
With a smile, I grab a pair of scissors and walk out the front door.
Ezra’s empty, monotone home could definitely use some color.
Orange butterfly milkweed, purple flox, yellow and red coreopsis, yarrow, coneflowers, daisies, Queen Anne’s lace, and, to my absolute delight, lupines and asters greet me happily in the yard.
What a beautiful late-October gift. Briefly setting aside the dumpster fire that is currently my life, I cheerfully gather a few handfuls of each type of flower.
The sun is warm on my back, a cool wind kicks up my hair, and for the first time in days, I feel at peace.
And then, something shifts.
The moment stretches too long.
The quiet is too perfect.
A shiver crawls up my spine, and the bugs roar back to life under my skin, their legs scraping at my ribs.
Someone’s out there. Watching.
Ifeelit, even if I can’t see it.
Did the Disciples find me already?
I turn toward the edge of the woods, my eyes wide as I scan the black areas between the trees. I don’t see anything, but I have to remind myself that I didn’t see Ezra—and he wasn’t even trying to stay hidden.
Quickly gathering my flowers, I hurry back to the house.
As I reach for the front door handle, my foot knocks against something metallic. It clatters against the stone step, and I freeze.
No, no, no.
My pulse slams against my ribs.
Those fucking bugs skitter like they’re trying to crawl out of my pores.
A coffee mug that says, “Freak in the Sheets.”
Identical to Jameson’s.
I’m certain it wasn’t there when I came out to pick flowers. My clumsy ass would have tripped over it.
But then … that means someone was on Ezra’s property.
Someone who knew Jameson.
Someone who knows me.
Knows Ezra.
