A cold realization slips in. I might have miscalculated. This isn’t posturing. He could actually do it. Kill me. Leave me out here in the woods, never to be found. My pulse pounds harder.
The worst part isn’t the fear. It’s the curiosity, the way a broken piece of me, the part that went into the ground with Remi, isn’t actually scared.
It wants to see if he will.
The blade stays at my neck until I’m sure he’s going to follow through. Slice my throat. End this here.
Would I feel regret? Or relief?
Carrson doesn’t cut me. His eyes narrow with irritation. I’m not reacting the way I should, and he doesn’t like it, which honestly seems unfair considering he’s the one pointing a knife at me.
One more glance. His eyes meet mine. I stare back, unwavering. Whatever he sees, it’s enough. Not to trust me, but not to kill me either. I’m not dangerous enough. Or important enough.
He straightens, then drives the knife back into the tree trunk with a solidthunk.
“Leave,” he says, “before I make you.”
He’s already turning. The bag takes another hit. Then another. He falls into his rhythm like I don’t exist, but I notice it’s not quite as exact as it was before.
Heat flares in my chest, not fear, something angrier. More volatile. I’ve spent months chasing a ghost, and now I’m finally standing in front of him. Closer than I’ve ever been to answers. To the power I crave, the kind people like him take for granted.
No way am I leaving. Not when this might be my only chance.
Pulling myself up tall, I take another step forward. “I don’t take orders from you.” I raise my voice so he can hear me over the steady, brutal thud of his fists.
No response. Not even a twitch to show that he knows, or cares, I’m there.
“Excuse me?” I raise my voice so it carries. “These are public woods. I’m not going anywhere.”
Nothing. The longer he ignores me, the more my temper rises, the flame on the stovetop being turned up a notch at a time. My family jokes about my short fuse. Personally, I think I have a low tolerance for bullshit.
I don’t start fights.
I refuse to walk away from them.
Suddenly he stops. The stillness is louder than the noise. Without a word, without even a glance my way, Carrson turns and steps past me.
My mouth parts, shocked, as my head swivels to follow him. He’s not…leaving? Is he?
That’s exactly what he does. He walks away.
I stand there for a long time after he’s gone. Long enough for the bag to go still. For the birds to return, chirping like I’m part of the scenery. Like I was never worth noticing at all.
Which might be the most dangerous mistake he could make.
Chapter four
Marmalade
Becky
November 12, 1994
My dearest Remi,
Do you remember that cat you found in the alley behind the house? The mangy orange one? The stray? You said he was cute. I asked if he was rabid. You said we should adopt him.I said no.
It didn’t matter. He wouldn’t let us get close to him. He’d yowl and hiss and spit.
