Page 37 of Bird on a Blade

My chest is tight with anxiety as I lean against the tree, listening for whoever came to the cabin in that car. I think I hear footsteps crunching around on the packed dirt and fallen leaves.

I duck behind the tree line, switch my phone to silent, and text Charlotte.

Someone’s here. Don’t know who.

I stare down at the phone, willing her to respond. But the message remains marked as unread.

Shit.

I slide the phone into my pocket and consider my options:

Stay in the woods.

Try to sneak into the cabin and get my car keys.

Staying in the woods feels safer, even if it’s cold and damp. This intruder won’t stay here forever, right?

But then I hear footsteps for sure, plus a low, soft whistling.

And they’re coming closer.

I’m paralyzed. I want to go back down the trail and hide in the woods, but when I take a step it’s as loud as thunder, thanks to all the leaves and broken branches.

The whistling stops.

“Mrs. Hensner? Are you there?”

The voice is smooth and calm and masculine. It’s also notScott’s, thank god, but it’s someone he sent if they’re calling me by my married name.

“Your husband’s worried about you, Mrs. Hensner. My name’s Matt Baro. Scott sent me here to help work things out.”

I can’t move, afraid that any sound will give me away. But he’s coming closer. I can hear him crunching and crashing through the overgrown grass behind the old camper’s cabins.

I catch a glimpse of him through the trees.

“Mrs. Hensner? Edie?”

The man who steps into the path is tall and well-dressed, with tanned California skin and a slick of blond hair. When he sees me, he smiles, and there’s no trace of SoCal surfer in that smile at all. It’s cruel. He found what’s he looking for.

“There you are,” he says, like he’s talking to a lost pet.

I run.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

EDIE

It reminds me of running from Sawyer fifteen years ago.

I dive off the hiking trail, plunging into the forest’s thick growth. Branches lash out at me, stinging my face and hands as I try to claw them away. Baro shouts behind me, and I can hear him following me, both of our bodies crashing through the trees.

The only difference is I’ve been hiking the last hour. Adrenaline pushes me forward, and for a little while, at least, I can ignore the heavy ache in my legs, the constriction in my lungs. But I don’t know how long.

“You don’t have to run!” His voice echoes against the mountain. “I’m just trying to help you!”

Suddenly I feel strong, firm hands around my waist, and I’m jerked sideways, dragged roughly through a patch of sharp brambles. A gloved hand clamps on my mouth; a rubber mask brushes my cheeks.

“Shhh,” says Sawyer, soft as a sigh.

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