Page 45 of Cruel Cravings

“You don’t seem like the hunting type.”

“Appearances can be deceiving. Anyway, Deputy—or is it Harrison?—I’ve got to get going. Skinning my game so I can prepare dinner.”

As his gaze shifts past me and it becomes clear he’s trying to peer inside the cabin, I step closer to the door, blocking more of his view.

“If there’s nothing else, then I guess I’ll see you later.”

The radio from inside his sheriff’s vehicle goes off. A garbled voice comes through, announcing a homicide at a gas station bathroom off the highway. The voice goes in and out, the static loud, but I catch the next words: “possible victim of the Cleaver.”

My grip on the doorknob tightens and I say, “Well, have a good day. Good luck catching him.”

Before he can respond, I slam the door in his face and twist the lock. I dart toward the front window and snatch the curtains the rest of the way closed, but not before noticing that the sheriff’s deputy hovers at my doorstep for an extra few seconds.

It’s Detective Laurent all over again.

Why can’t these people just leave me alone?

Why do they always have to show up and try to make trouble for me?

The paranoia I had hoped to leave behind starts its usual climb. It rises and rises inside me ’til I’m pacing around the main room and my nerves are fraying.

Brontë watches my every step as I search my brain for what to do next. He didn’t utter a peep while Dudley was here. He kept as stonily silent as ever when he could’ve easily disrupted the deputy’s visit.

But it’s only a matter of time before they close in. There’s no way they’re not going to eventually come for me like they always do. They’ll throw me back in the hospital and I’ll be stuck with Nurse Big Bird and the others all over again.

“That’s not going to happen,” I mutter to myself. “I just have to make sure they don’t keep finding me.”

And then I stop mid-step, my head turning in Brontë’s direction.

Paranoia breeds suspicion, making my eyes narrow. I start toward him.

“Did you lead him here?” I ask accusatorially. “Who did you tell you were coming into these woods? Someone had to have known!”

Brontë lets me stew in silence. He offers no excuses or defenses of his innocence. He lets me think what I want.

Which is probably the most frustrating thing for someone crippled by paranoia.

I shriek in frustration and stomp my foot. “ANSWER ME!”

I unsheathe the knife from my hip, gripping the handle tight, and then I realize it’s not enough.

He doesn’t care if I cut him up. He took every slash of my knife like it was nothing last night. I need to show him Ireallymean what I say. That this situation is life or death.

I run out of the room and into the next one over. A few seconds later I’m back, clutching one of Mr. Klum’s pistols.

“I guess kindness gets you nowhere,” I say. “I thought we were making headway. I gave you food. You gave me your name. I gave you your mask back. But apparently that good will means nothing to you. You’d rather learn the hard way. Let’s get one thing straight, Brontë—if I go down, you’re fucking coming with me. So you better start speaking up. Got it?”

I cock the hammer as I hold the pistol up and show off its sleek, silver design.

“Fits perfectly in my hands,” I tease darkly, the corner of my lip curling.

He remains still, though there’s something burning in his eyes. Something that says he’ll be defiant to the very end.

It looks like we’re in for another long interrogation session.

“If I find out you led him here, I’m blowing your fucking brains out, Brontë. Do you think I won’t? Try me.” I laugh at my own words, back to my usual pacing. I’m right in front of him,close enough that if I pointed the gun at him, I’d surely hit my mark.

I’ve never shot a gun before. I’m not going to pretend I’m some skilled marksman.

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