Page 86 of Bird on a Blade

“Yes,” I whisper back.

And just like that, Edie Hensner is dead, killed at the hands of Sawyer Caldwell.

But I’m not dead, and I wrap myself in his arms instead.

EPILOGUE

EDIE

SIX MONTHS LATER

Rain pummels against the big plate glass windows that look out at the beach. I’m curled up on the sofa, trying to read a novel. The storm’s too distracting, though. All that driving wind and torrential rain. I’m still not used to the thunderstorms here in Pensacola, which have all the crash and turmoil of hurricanes even though it’s April and, I’ve been told, hurricane season hasn’t started yet.

Thunder cracks overhead, making me jump, and I look up at my reflection in the windows, pale and transparent and streaked with raindrops. Sawyer’s out in this somewhere. Hunting.

“Storms are good,” he told me this evening, right at sunset, the light strange and glowing as the sun’s last rays struggled to break through the looming storm clouds. “Give me cover. Just like that snowstorm back in Virginia.”

Then he kissed me, his hand curled around my neck.

Then he was gone.

I flip another page of my book without reading any of the words on it. Look at the window again. During the day, in clear weather, I can see the Gulf of Mexico. But right now, I can’t even see our little backyard, all the tropical plants that I grow in heavy terra cotta pots. I’ve taken up gardening since we settled here. Because Edie Hensner has been missing six months and presumed dead, I can’t work; maybe someday, Sawyer will wrangle up a fake identity like the one he used to land a job on a construction site. But we don’t really need the money. The house I paid for with the cash from my secret bank account, and Sawyer’s work brings in enough for living expenses.

It’s a carnival mirror version of my old life with Scott. A curved, distorted reflection. Maybe a little eerie at first. But the more you look at it, the more beautiful it becomes.

Thunder booms, and the thin walls of the house shake. I throw my book aside and jump up, too jittery to read. A million worried thoughts flash through my head: Sawyer plowing his pickup truck into a black pool of deep floodwater. Sawyer in glittering silver handcuff. Sawyer shot in the head again, unable to drag himself back home to me.

I pace around the cozy living room, past my spider plants with their trailing, curling vines. Smoke, the little black cat Sawyer found when we were fleeing Virginia, skitters across my feet, as unnerved by the storm as I am.

“Smokies,” I call out, and she stops, looks at me with her big green eyes. Then she trots over and nudges her head up against my hand. She’s Sawyer’s cat, really; she sleeps curled up by his side every night. It wasn’t exactly a surprise when he told me he loved cats.

Still, she’ll tolerate me when he’s not around.

I scoop her up and snuggle her against my chest. Soft, calming purrs vibrate against my heart, even though the howling rain drowns them out.

“I know, I miss him, too.” I speak the words into her silky fur. “But you know Sawyer. When he gets the urge, he justhasto go hunting.”

Smoke mews in agreement.

“Just like you, I know, I know. Butyoudon’t go hunting mice in a storm like this, do you?”

Immediately, a shattering bolt of thunder cracks the room in two, followed a second later by a searing lightning flash. Smoke leaps out of my arms, her fur standing up straight, and bolts back into the bedrooms. But I’m not worried about her.

A figure stands in the garden.

The lightning fades, and I can only see my reflection again. My pulse quickens—with fear, but with excitement, too.

“Did you make it home, my perfect Hunter?” I whisper.

I switch the overhead light off, plunging the room into darkness. The figure in the garden watches me through the glass, not moving. But he wears Sawyer’s killing face.

I smile and turn the light back on, throwing myself back on display. The rain lashes against the glass, but my Hunter is unbothered by it. He just watches me, waiting.

I know which game he wants to play.

I lay back down on the couch and slide my panties off, dropping them on the floor beside me. Then I press my dress hem up around my thighs, trace my fingers along my skin. I pretend I don’t know that Sawyer is out there, watching me, as I reach between my legs to massage my clit and feel the wetness already pooling in my cunt.

When I drop my head toward the window, all I can see is my reflection: my body splayed out, my legs spread. I arch my back and reach into my bra to squeeze at my breast, teasing my pebbled nipple. I can’t see Sawyer out there, but I know he’s watching the show I put on for him as I play at being the clueless victim in a horror movie, so intent on making herself come that she doesn’t hear the killer creep inside.

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