Page 65 of Say Yes to the Death

“Thanks.” Claire set her bag on the floor.Sawyer left through the side door, and she stuffed her phone into her bra. It might not save her, but it would certainly take him longer to find it.

She pushed a plaid curtain to the side. He was walking toward the driveway, so maybe murder wasn’t on the agenda after all. Unless he was just lulling her into a false sense of security. Her fingers shook as she typed a quick message to Mindy. She probably wouldn’t have service in the woods, but at least if she disappeared someone would know.

Claire: Long story. If I go missing, I’m at Sawyer’s house. I’m wearing black shorts, those Vera Wang sandals you tried to steal last Friendsgiving, and a white button-down top. You know my laptop password. All my account passwords are stored in the “Grocery List” Excel file. Track my phone.

She sent her location for good measure and tucked her phone away. What kind of home did a security professional keep? Were there nanny cams and motion sensors everywhere? She peered at a one-eyed teddy bear on a shelf next to a comic book. Dozens of framed pictures cluttered Sawyer’s furniture. In one picture, two women hung from his biceps as he held them off the ground. In another, a beautiful redhead in a park ranger uniform thrust her hands toward the sky.

There was time to worry about the enigma of Sawyer later. For now, she needed an emergency weapon. How hard could that be to find in a security guy’s house? She hustled into the kitchen. Perfect. A butcher block. She pulled a small paring knife out, wrapped it in a tea towel, and tucked it in her bra underneath the other boob. Hopefully, that would be enough to prevent her from impaling herself. Then she crossed back to the living room to casually study more of the photos.

The front door banged open.

Claire screamed and leapt backward. It was time. He was coming for her. Her shin crashed into the coffee table, and she fell backward and hit the ground hard. Her already bruised tailbone smarted. She splayed with one leg trapped under the couch and one hand stuffed into her bra, reaching for the knife.

Sawyer’s head hovered over the couch. “Sorry, the door sticks. All clear out front. Am I—uh—interrupting?”

She snatched her hand out of her bra. Her ears went hot. “No, I’m just?—”

“Hiding weapons in your bra in case I’m a murderer? Not a bad move.” He rounded the couch and bent down. He reached out a hand.

She took it, and he pulled her up to standing as easily as if he was picking up an empty laundry bag.

“You’re right.” Claire fished in her bra and drew out the paring knife. She handed it to him. The jig was up. If he did decide to attack her, he knew exactly where to look. Damn it. “Sorry. I’m finding it difficult to trust people these days.”

“Understandable.” He smiled as he unrolled the knife. He handed it back to her.

“Got some strawberries you need me to hull?”

“Nah. If it makes you feel safer, you should keep it.”

“Thank you.” Her guard came down a millimeter. But she would still stab a bitch if she needed to.

“You look like you could use a shower and maybe a cup of tea.”

She frowned and smoothed a hand over her hair. It wasn’t damp anymore, but it probably still had Seine filth on it.

“Not because you look bad or anything, just because you just got off a flight. I? always feel gross when I? fly,” he rambled. “I’m not trying to be creepy, just thought maybe you’d want to feel clean after—you know what, I’m going to stop talking now.”

She smiled. “A shower would be great, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure. Don’t forget your knife.”

Sawyer led her down a narrow, wood-paneled hallway to the bathroom. He hadn’t even asked her anything else. How could that be? He didn’t even know her that well, but he had opened his home to her as readily as if she were his closest friend. Either he was gathering intel or he really was a decent human being.

“I? don’t really have any girly soap or anything.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Help yourself to anything in here, though.”

“Thanks, Sawyer. Listen, I??—”

He put a gentle hand on her wrist to stop her. “You don’t need to explain.”

“Thank you,” she said again, weariness settling into her bones.

He shut the door and left her to her thoughts.

The steaming shower in the 50s-style blue bathtub had brought with it some clarity and acceptance. This wasn’t the first time someone had stomped on her heart with a pair of cleats. She could handle a little heartbreak. Give a girl a fresh pair of leggings and she could do anything.

She wiped a spot clean in the steamy bathroom mirror. You couldn’t even tell she had crawled out of a river and been publicly humiliated in a foreign country. Ha. She twisted her hair up into a towel and zipped her suitcase shut. The paring knife glinted on the bathroom sink. She shrugged, then wrapped it in a clean sock and shoved it back into her bra. Maybe if he did attack her, he wouldn’t expect her to use the same hiding place she had already exposed. She paused with her hand on the doorknob and triple-checked that she was wearing pants. There would be no repeats of the Luke Incident.

Stop thinking about Luke.

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