Nolan’s smile brightens. Something flashes in the dim light at his side. It’s the blade I left behind in his tire, his fist tight around the handle, its deadly edge ready to kill. “I’m not going anywhere just yet. Not until you give me my book.”
“You think I’m just going to hand over my leverage? I’m not giving you shit,” I declare, firming my grip on the gun. “You need to leave, before you get everything even more ass-backwards than you already have. You’re making a mistake. I’m not who you think I am.”
“You’re right. I thought you were acoward, just running from your past. Turns out you’re actually a soulless monster.” Nolan scoffs, his eyes slowly dropping to my feet and back up again, a look of disgust surfacing in his expression. For some reason, that hits harder than any of the vitriolic comments he’s made to me in the brief time I’ve known him.
Stalemate.
The word comes out of nowhere and crashes into me with enough force that I nearly lose sight of the present. The voice that delivers it is still so clear in my mind despite the years that have passed, a memory that has no right infiltrating such a fraught moment.
I shake my head only slightly, barely a perceptible motion as I try to rid myself of the echo. I don’t expect Nolan to notice, but I think he does, a crease settling between his brows. It’s not concern, even though it might seem that way on the surface. It’s just confusion—I know that. But even if it was some kind of fleeting wisp of empathy, I don’t want it. Not from him.
I suck in a breath to resume the argument about his trophy scrapbook when another voice interrupts my thoughts.
“Pretty murder bird,” Morpheus says from the garden wall. Our gazes cut toward him as he pecks the last of the morsels off the stone. “Nom, nom. C is for cookie.”
Morpheus gives three knocking clucks and then mimics the sound of the diesel tractor engine.
Nolan’s eyes slide to the woodchipper and then back to mine, disbelief now mixing with the revulsion that still simmers in his face. “Did you name your woodchipper after the beloved Sesame Street character Cookie Monster and then teach a raven to beg for human snacks made from the people you murdered?”
A thick swallow slides down my throat. “It’s not as bad as it sounds.”
“No,” Nolan says as all the light leaves his eyes. “It’s worse.”
“That’s good enough for me,” Morpheus recites in a painfully accurate replica of my own impersonation of Cookie Monster.
I’m desperate to drag a hand down my face, but I’m unwilling to let go of the gun or the bottle of Piss-Off! Neither feels like enough of a weapon when Nolan stares at me with such unforgiving malice. There’s enough heat in his glare to ignite a violent eruption in a dormant volcano.
“You’re a terrible human being,” he says, as though he’s affirming it to himself as much as he is to me.
“You don’t know anything about me,” I whisper.
“Oh, really? I think I know plenty.” He takes a step closer, and though everything in my body screams at me to run, I stay right where I am with the gun aimed at his face. “I know you kill people and drive away. I know you dispose of dead bodies with a woodchipper.”
“You kill people and make them into a scrapbook, so that’s a bit of the pot calling the kettle black, don’t you think?”
“At least I dispose of them properly. You do realize bone chips don’t just magically disintegrate in the soil, right? I guess I know how you get all those gardening awards now. Maybe the police would like to know too.” Nolan frowns down at the tarp and then over to the beds of freshly planted flowers before he settles his ire back on me. He takes another step closer, his grip tightening on the handle of the knife. “Tell me, do you hunt with the old man? Or is it just his messes that you clean up? Is that why he lets you live in this cottage? Maybe you’re the daughter he always wished he had.”
Bile churns beneath my sternum. I don’t know if he understands what he’s saying, or if it’s just a cruel coincidence. Either way, his words crawl beneath my skin, heating my palm in the glove as I firm my grip on the gun. “Get the fuck off my property and maybe I’ll let you live,” I snarl as he takes another small step closer. I should back away. Or I should shoot him, just accept the risk that the bang will draw the attention of neighbors and tourists staying nearby. I can tear my name out of his book and hand it over as evidence. Work quickly to try to clean up the mess of what’s left of Jake Hornell and hope to fuck Cape Carnage’s inept Sheriff Yates won’t look too closely at anything other than Nolan, the man who was trespassing on Arthur Lancaster’s estate and threatening my life.
I’m still weighing the risks and benefits of shooting Nolan Rhodes in the face when he says something that slices through every thought spiraling through the confines of my skull.
“Since the police can’t seem to solve shit around here, maybe I should just let that amateur investigator Sleuthseekers group know, seeing as how the old man’s already got their attention.”
All the fire that was just coursing through my veins suddenly turns to ice. “What did you say?”
“The Sleuthseekers. They’re here, and it’s only a matter of time before—”
“Who is here?” I demand, taking a step back. “Who?”
A flicker of intrigue ignites in Nolan’s eyes, nearly hidden by the malice and hatred he seems to wear like armor. It’s as though he’s contradicting his better judgment when he unleashes a name I dread to hear. A man who was on my trail when I first disappeared. One who is tenacious. Determined. And worse, one who hunts fame like a bloodhound scenting a fox. One I haven’t kept close tabs on since I thought my story had faded away when their group started favoring other prey. But I know I’ve made a colossal fucking mistake when Nolan says, “Sam Porter.”
I falter under the weight of those two words. And Nolan sees it. That one heartbeat where my finger separates from the trigger. When I lower the gun just enough to leave an opening.
And he takes it.
The weapon flies from my grasp and lands on the grass. I have just enough time to hit the flat side of his blade with the bottle of Piss-Off! spray to knock it to the ground. But even as it’s falling, Nolan’s other hand is already gripped tight around my throat. He leaves me just enough air to breathe. His palm tightens beneath my jaw, his fingers firm and unforgiving in my flesh. My pulse hammers into his warm skin as he draws me closer, staring down into my eyes as though he’ll consume my fucking soul. “Where. Is. My. Book?”
Mint and rage flood my face with every breath he takes. Fury radiates from him, charging the air between us. That wedge of brown in his left eye seems to darken, as though the demon in him is rising to the surface. And I stare right back at it, daring the devil to come out. My words might be choked, but they still hold venom when I say, “Go fuck yourself.”
His grip hardens and I struggle not to cough. “I could torture you until you tell me.”
“I’ve been tortured before. Go ahead,” I hiss, the pressure building in my head with every heartbeat, my vision throbbing. Nolan’s brows knit tighter, just for a flicker of time, his scowl dropping to my lips before rising once more. “Except you should probably know …” My gloved hand grips his wrist and I haul myself closer, until there’s only an inch or two of space between us. “Your precious book will go straight to the FBI along with every scrap of information I’ve collected on you so far. The license plate of your rental vehicle. The medication you take. The pharmacy that fills your prescription. Your fucking phone number. Hurt me or kill me. Go right ahead and watch your life unravel. I’m sure your parents and sister will be so proud to find out who Nolan Rhodes truly is, especially after everything they’ve already lost.”
