Page 188 of Exposé

Safe.

I exhaled through my nose—my pulse steady, but the war raging in my head inflicted havoc as I battled the one thing I wanted versus the one thing I needed.

A sickness hit my gut as I turned away from the closed doors.

This better be worth it.

The scent of cologne hit first as I walked through the side door—too strong, cloying like it had been sprayed to cover something up.

Darkness swallowed the kitchen like a thick fog in a graveyard with an accompanying heavy, unnatural stillness.

I locked the door as though I were never there and walked further into the home, my feet light on the tile. A glass coffee table sat in the middle of the living room—the leather sectionalbeside it like a staged showroom, a flat-screen mounted to the wall across from it.

The fridge droned in a low hum, the only sign of life in the entire house. My heartbeat synced to it, pounding in my ears in a suffocating rhythm as I set the final stage.

A car pulled up, the headlights cutting across the living room through the big bay window, casting ominous shadows that moved and writhed.

Show time.

A key entered the lock.

The doorknob twisted, and he entered the kitchen. He flipped the switch, and light penetrated the open sterile space.

My vision narrowed, focusing on his salt-and-pepper hair as he tossed the keys onto the quartz countertop—shadows draping across my face like his reaper come to collect his due.

Keith dropped his mail onto his counter beside his keys, a letter falling to the ground. He bent over and paused, his eyes landing on a scuff of dirt I'd left behind.

Shit.

I lunged from the shadows, slamming into him, his back hitting the island dead center in the kitchen.

Keith yelled out, his head knocking into the high-end espresso machine, sending it crashing to the floor.

We scuffled, his hand pushing at my chin as we rolled to the other counter. A dullthudechoed as he ripped a marble mortar from the spice rack, muscles tensing before he swung.

I dropped low, releasing my gloved hold on him. The heavy stone whistled past my head—CRACK!—it smashed into the backsplash, sending shards of tile raining onto the counter.

Rushing him, I drove my fist into his ribs. A guttural grunt escaped him as he staggered back, colliding with the stainless-steel fridge. The metallicclangvibrated through the room.

"You're strong for an old man." I shook out my shoulders one by one as he braced himself against the fridge, his chest heaving for air.

"This was a dumb move, Barlowe."

"That remains to be seen."

His hand jerked to a drawer, and it flew open. A flash of steel—he gripped the handle of a chef’s knife, ripping it free.

Our eyes locked.

The blade caught the LED white light, gleaming between us like a slasher film.

His breath came fast.

Mine stayed steady.

He slashed the knife through the air, and I jerked back—the blade slicing just deep enough to send a hot sting through my forearm. Blood pattered onto the polished floor.

"Lucky." I mocked a lunge, and he swung again. I took the open momentum on his way back and bound forward, my hand catching his wrist and twisting hard.

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