Page 34 of What the Shadows Hide
I park beside the porch and kill the engine. For a moment, I just sit there, fingers gripping the steering wheel, staring at my reflection in the glass.
“Get it together,” I mutter. “You’re fine.”
When I finally step out, the gravel crunches too loudly under my boots. The sound echoes into the stillness.
Inside, the house greets me with the familiar creak of old wood and the faint hum of the refrigerator. Everything looks normal.
Except instinct says it isn’t.
A chill hangs in the air that wasn’t here this morning. The nightlight by the stairs is off—even though I never unplugged it.
And there’s a smell. Faint, but unmistakable.
Cologne.
Not my perfume. Not cleaning supplies. Something darker, notes of spiced wood and amber, threaded with rain, filtering through the air.
I don’t wear anything like that.
I move from room to room, checking windows, doors, and even the pantry. Everything is as it should be.
Still, I can’t shake the sense that something—or someone—has been here.
By the time I reach the kitchen, the last light has drained from the sky. The vineyard outside is nothing but a black sea of vines.
My reflection stares back at me in the window—wide eyes, pale skin, the flashlight clutched in my hand like a weapon. The same one that was left on the porch this morning.
I turn it on and sweep the beam over the porch, the yard, the gravel driveway.
Nothing.
But the light catches faint scuff marks on the floorboards just inside the threshold. Mud. The size of a boot print.
My breath hitches.
I close the door slowly, lock it again, and lean against it. The wood feels solid, but not safe.
I try to tell myself it’s fine. Maybe Owen stopped by when I was in town. Maybe the mud’s from me.
But the scent of spiced wood and amber lingers—too rich, too alive to belong to a memory.
When I finally head upstairs, I leave the lights on this time. All of them.
And before I crawl into bed, I set the flashlight on my nightstand, angled toward the door.
If he comes back, I’ll be ready.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
CHAPTER 19
Tristan
The ridge isquiet when I pull up and cut the engine. It ticks in the silence as I stare at the estate burning like a lantern against the dark.
Every window glows—curtains open, light spilling across the vines like she’s trying to keep the night at bay.
She’s afraid.
