Page 58 of Song Bird Hearts
She smells like pine and vanilla today. The vanilla from her shampoo, the pine from Knox’s cologne. I don’t hate the smell.
I watch her from the porch, a mug of Earl Grey tea in my hand, the steam curling up like a ghost from between my fingers. Valerie Decatur is twenty feet away, barefoot in the dewy grass, her flannel shirt rolled up to the elbows as she carries a basket of eggs up the steps like they’re made of glass.
I should be doing something, maybe pretending to join in the domestic activities that everyone else is. Hell, I could probably go help Gilden wrangle that godforsaken llama that keeps spitting on him. Just yesterday the brown and white beast waited until Gilden wasn’t paying attention to come up and spit on the back of his head. Now they’re in a literal war for dominance. Speaking of the devils, Gilden comes running up on the porch, the llama not far behind.
“Back off, Sir Spits-a-Lot!” Gilden snarls. When I raise my brow at him, he adds, “Yeah, I knighted him with my dignity when he hawked in my face.”
“It’s just a llama,” I point out, entertained.
“Don’t let the fluff fool you,” he growls. “He’s got evil in his bones and a complex the size of Texas for a beast who can’t even clear a fence.”
Sir Spits-a-lot tries to get him, but Gilden smacks him away playfully. “Begone, foul beast!”
Valerie giggles from the kitchen as she witnesses the tail end of the conversation after placing the basket inside, her eyes bright as she comes out and takes in the scene. “I think you made a best friend, Gilden.”
“A friend would never treat me like this drama cow does,” Gilden says, but there’s laughter in his voice, belying his clear affection for the creature.
Instead of butting in or helping, I just watch Valerie.
I’m always watching her.
Because obsession isn’t about staring; it’s about knowing. How her laugh always comes with a shoulder twitch. How she bites her lip when she’s thinking too hard. How she keeps reaching for her phone even though she’d turned it off to avoid checking all the notifications constantly.
I’ve memorized her, and I don’t want to share her. Not with the world. Not even with them.
But I will. Because I’d rather slice open my own throat than lose what I’ve found here.
The ranch feels like a fever dream.
Knox is sharpening his pocketknife under the awning, his muscles coiled like fire. His eyes trail over to Valerie while he sharpens it, as if he’s thinking about ways to use it on her. Gilden has straw in his hair and is loudly arguing with Sir Spits-a-Lot who responds by spitting in his face. Again.
“I swear on my mother’s pearl-handled-pistol,” Gilden hisses. “I will spit back, you evil cow!”
Kevin oinks in lazy protest nearby, belly-up to the sun. He’s an easy pet, one who’s happy for some bites of food and a bit of attention before sleeping the rest of the time.
It’s. . . normal. Domestic, even. And it guts me.
Because this —this fragile, fractured family—they haven’t just let me in. They’ve welcomed me in now. They feed me. They trust me. And it’s me who’s going to throw the match on the gasoline.
I should’ve left days ago.
But how do you leave something you’ve already claimed?
I don’t just love her. I need her.
Like a wolf needs the moon.
* * *
Sometime after noon, I’d offered to help Knox fix a fence post out at the gate someone had accidently backed into. I haven’t been able to shake the feeling of foreboding that’s been crashing over me since this morning, and when the low growl of an unfamiliar engine hits the gravel drive, I tense. A black SUV pulls into the drive, no dust on the tires, a license plate with very few letters and numbers stamped into it.
Clearly government issued.
Even the windows are tinted so dark, no light could penetrate it.
Knox is already moving, his hand to his holster, his eyes hard.
When the door opens, my gut twists.
