“What’s the way out?”
My shoulders sink with a sigh.
“Come on.” I move toward the door. “I’ll show you.”
“Luna.” Sawyer takes my hand to stop me. “We’re in the Head Keeper’s quarters. It’s heavily guarded.”
Heavily guarded…
Right.
As if I’d let people wander my quarters without permission.
“Just trust me.”
He makes a face but doesn’t protest as I pull from his hold and crack open the door, cringing as the hinge creaks. I make a show of peeking into the empty hall, and of course, see no one.
I slip an inch out the door before my body tenses and a sense of disorder washes over me.
“What’s wrong?” Sawyer asks as I turn.
I shake my head. “Nothing.” My face burn as I walk to the bed and hurry to make it.
“Luna,” he reprimands. But doesn’t ask what I’m doing. When I look at him, his brow isn’t furrowed in confusion as anyone else’s might be.
For some reason, this makes me blush harder.
Once finished with the bed, I walk past him without a word and tiptoe into the hall. Sawyer follows me straight to the library. It’s a risk, walking with such direction, such confidence.
“In here,” I say unnecessarily as I slide open the door to the library and slip inside. Sawyer creeps in behind me with impressively quiet steps.
I walk to the bookshelf and run my hand along the side until I find the groove I’m looking for. Shielding the shelf with my body, I fit my ring into the groove until I hear the lockclick.
Sawyer guessed that my ring was important to me. He couldn’t have guessed the extent of it.
I open up the door—risky, unnecessary,impulsive—and beckon Sawyer inside. The automatic light clicks on as soon as his foot hits the floor. I listen for his gasp when he takes it in, but he doesn’t seem to breathe at all.
I slip inside and shut the door while Sawyer stands staring at the wall that catalogs his life. Photos of him, mostly from the private detective but a few of his island, his victims, are pinnedin neat rows with notes beneath each. If he searched for long, he’d see my most recent notes.
Obsessive compulsive disorder.
Cheek tics when nervous.
Lines up feet at doors before proceeding into rooms.
Left-handed.
Chews primarily using right molars.
Numbers he says in his sleep: thirteen. Twenty-seven. Six.
Teeth tap equals one step?
Schizophrenic mother - deceased.
It wouldn’t take much for him to realize I’m the person who created that list. But he’s too busy staring at the photos to notice.
I lift up the carpet and move the wooden plank covering the ladder that’ll take us to the first floor.
