It’s the same as yesterday. That sick little thrill. The dreadful curiosity, like I’m outside my body, watching this happen and waiting to see how far he’ll go. His eyes hold mine. Alive. Full of intent.
I think he might…
Then, whatever he was about to do, he doesn’t.
The tension snaps as he pivots away in one smooth motion without resetting his stance and throws, acting like that was his plan all along. The knife slams into the bark with a sharp thwack. It sinks deep into the trunk, splitting the wood. Another follows. It lands right next to the first.
My heart slows, my pulse lagging. After that, he doesn’t look at me again. I stretch out on my stomach and prop my chin on my hand, my eyes fixed on the open page in front of me, but I don’t read a single word.
Behind me, he moves. The crunch of leaves under his feet, the subtle shift of his weight. I track it all without looking, each sound mapping him in my mind with more clarity than sight ever could. The scrape of steel follows as he pulls one of the knives free from the tree, then the crack of wood as it hits again, deeper.
A slow rage builds in me as I listen. At him and all the others like him.
If people like Carrson Ashford actually cared, Remi would be here. It’s not logical. I know that. The world doesn’t bend because someone deserves it. Doesn’t matter. I still feel it, the bitterness, the fury, every time I see him. He has power. The kind most people never glimpse. The kind that could change things, quietly but decisively.
If I had what he has, I wouldn’t waste it. I wouldn’t be out in the woods torturing a tree to death. I’d be in a boardroom or sitting in Congress the way his father and grandfather used to. I’d be building schools. Solving wars. Most of all, funding medical treatment so no one had to watch their loved one vanish a little at a time.
The knives stop, and the heavy, rhythmic sound of the punching bag takes over. He hits it harder than yesterday, a steady, punishing cadence that vibrates through the ground. I keep my eyes on the page, but I can sense it. The force of him. The violence that practically radiates off him.
As twilight darkens the sky, his rhythm changes. Each hit lands with less force before stopping altogether. The clearing falls into a strange, suspended quiet. I don’t look up, even when I hear him coming toward me, his footsteps unmistakable through the dry leaves. He stops behind me and stays there. Watching me.
I pretend to read, as if I don’t notice. Don’t care. But every part of me is tuned to him.
“Touch my things again,” he says finally, “and next time I won’tstop myself.”
That’s it. The sound of his footsteps fades into the woods, swallowed up by the quiet until all that’s left is the hum of insects.
I sit up, brushing dirt and leaves from my jeans. A look at the tree shows Carrson took his knives with him this time. He didn’t trust me enough to leave them, which is fair.
One corner of my mouth lifts as I look down the path where he disappeared.
Next time.That’s what he said.
Now I don’t have to chase you.
You’ll come to me.
Chapter six
Puzzle
Becky
December 19, 1994
My dearest Remi,
He isn’t what I expected. I thought he’d be polished. Fake. Charming.
He’s not.
Mostly, heignores me. Sometimes he throws a fit, like a toddler. He hasn’t pulled a knife on me again, but he has kicked dirt onto my blanket, dumped out my water bottle, and thrown my book into the woods.
That last one annoyed me. The pages got all bent. You know I can’t stand anyone who treats a book like that. Remember how we used to argue because you liked to crack the spine of our books and I thought it was sacrilege?
Aside from the temper tantrums, he does his training every day and then leaves. It’s been two months now.
I’m not worried, though. He’s starting to pay attention. Yesterday, I caught him staring. From the corner of his eye. Like he couldn’t figure me out.
