Page 58 of Bird on a Blade

“Get the paint,” I say. “Nothing else. Don’t go poking around in the shops.”

“Not even to grab myself a sweater?”

I point the hammer at her. “You can wear my flannels, and you can like it.”

She grins at that. It always gives me a thrill, when something I say makes her smile.

“I’ll be back in half an hour,” she says. “Forty-five minutes tops.”

“I’ll be timing you.” And I will. It’s almost half after ten now. The second the clock hits 11:15, I’ll be heading to Altarida, knife and mask in hand. I don’t tell her that, though.

She hugs my legs, nearly knocking me off the ladder. I pretend to shoo her away, but really I like it, this back and forth, her silly hugs.

It almost makes me feel normal.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

EDIE

Idon’t want to say it’s a relief to go into town. Being at Sawyer’s place isn’t exactly unpleasant.Sawyercertainly isn’t unpleasant. But it’s isolating, and sometimes it feels like the woods are squeezing in around me. The leaves are peaking and all the reds and oranges and golds make the clearing feel like it’s at the center of a circle of fire.

It doesn’t help, either, that every now and then I come across these little reminders about what Sawyer is. What he does. Every time I think I’ve become okay with it, him being a killer, I stumble across something that makes my stomach twist up tight and I think that I should call the police and get the hell out. Like his big hunting knife that he polishes each night before bed, tucking it away in its leather pouch before he slides into the sheets beside me.

Or the body parts I found sitting up in a tree a few meters away from the church, the flesh decaying away and perfuming the air with a curdled sweetness.

Little reminders. Not big enough for me to run away, although they should be. But whenever I see them, whenever I think about them, Sawyer’s own sweetness suddenly seems as dark as rot.

I shake my head, turn the music up. For all my doubts, I still can’t bring myself to leave. And I think that’s what really scares me.

I just need some normalcy, that’s all.

The drive is perfect in that regard. My car is familiar compared to Sawyer’s church, and I feel like I can appreciate the autumn colors better while I’m driving in them; the dappled, golden light reminds me of pumpkin spice lattes and cozy sweaters and the miniature pumpkins I’d buy every year to put on the kitchen table. It doesn’t remind me of fire. Of trees blooming rotting skulls.

When I pull into Altarida, it looks like a postcard. The shops have their Halloween decorations up, cutesy skeletons and big-eyed witches. The hardware store has strung fake cobwebs in their window. Normal. It’s all so fucking normal.

It doesn’t take me long to get the supplies. I keep an eye on the time; I don’t want to know what Sawyer will do if I’m so as much as a minute late. Not tome, of course. But just… in general.

Leaves skitter down the street as I load up the car. It’s the middle of the week, and no one’s out. The emptiness is both reassuring and unnerving, like the world is holding its breath for something. A moment of stillness before the cops descend on us. Onme. Sawyer tells me not to worry, but he can just die again. I’m an accessory, a thought that bothers me more for the potential consequences than its actual moral weight.

Leaves billow up around the car as I drive out of town and onto the little farm-to-market road that winds deep into the mountain. I’m good on time; I’ll make it back to Sawyer’s with at least twenty minutes to spare, and then maybe I can start painting over the sigil. Sawyer seemed embarrassed by it, but I actually think it’s kind of beautiful. It’s primal and intricate: something Charlotte would like. I ought to take a picture for her, although I have no idea if it would be a safe thing to send. A god, Sawyer said, although clearly one he doesn’t believe in.

I’m on the farm-to-market, driving through the golden-dappled sunlight, when I see the car behind me.

It’s nondescript, dark blue, and it’s a least two cars’ length back from me. But something about it sends a siege of panic coursing through my chest. No one drives on these roads. No onelivesout here.

I keep going, telling myself I’m being paranoid. Maybe peopledolive out here. Or, more likely, maybe it’s someone driving to one of the trailheads.

The trailhead where Sawyer dumped Baro’s body.

The road curves; I curve with it. For a moment, the car is gone. I’m no longer being followed.

It reappears.

My face feels hot. I want to turn off the road and see if the car follows, but there are no turnoffs, not until the dirt road that leads to the church.

Go to the church.Go toSawyer.

The car drops back a little, enough that it disappears and reappears as I twine through the road’s sinuous turns. But it’s there. If I hadn’t noticed it, maybe I wouldn’t think anything. But I did notice it.

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