She paused, staring at him strangely before pushing in her other bud. “You too.”

As he watched her run off, the dog loping beside her, Everett hoped fate would throw them together again soon. One thing was for sure: Callie Jacobsen was a mystery he wanted to solve.

Chapter Three

CALLIE WAS IN the dark, a blaring alarm screaming around her. The only thing louder than the noise was the sound of her heart pounding. She reached along the wall, trying to find the deactivate button, anything to quiet the sounds.

Blinding pain sliced through her back, and she fell to the floor. Writhing, she turned to look up at her assailant, knowing who it was before she even saw his face.

Tristan.

His face was twisted into a terrifying mask of hatred, and she tried to move, to pull herself across the floor and away from the glittering knife in his hand, but she was paralyzed.

The knife swung down toward her, and she screamed . . .

Callie woke up sobbing, the soft, wet brush of Ratchet’s tongue on her face pulling her out of the nightmare. With shaking hands, she wrapped her arms around her dog and buried her nose in his fur. She breathed in the calming lavender-and-vanilla baby shampoo she used for his baths, and slowly, her trembling subsided. She flipped off the alarm clock on the nightstand when she realized it was still going, breathing a sigh of relief when all was quiet except for the sound of her heartbeat and Ratchet’s panting.

God, it had been months since she’d dreamed about Tristan. Not since the last letter. It didn’t make sense.

Climbing out of bed on unsteady limbs, she made her way to the bathroom and splashed water over her face. The cold was jarring but just what she needed to pull her completely out of her terror.

Ratchet sat next to her, leaning his body against her leg as if to reassure her. I’m here. You have nothing to fear. It was amazing how he could read exactly what she needed.

“You’re such a good boy, Ratch.”

His large tail thumped the tile floor as she undressed, avoiding her reflection in the mirror. She didn’t need to see the scars to know they were there. All six raised lines—some jagged; others, clean white scars on her already pale skin. They were proof of her stupidity. She had put her faith in a man who had lied to her, and his betrayal had cost her everything.

Her mind drifted back to that night. She’d come home just after seven, since the radio station she’d been working at was just a few miles from her childhood home. Her mother had given the house to them as an engagement present and moved into the guest house. It had been so amazingly generous, Callie almost hadn’t accepted, but her mother had squeezed her hands hard and said, “No buts; it’s yours.”

As she’d come through the door, she’d expected to smell dinner on the table and hear the sound of Tristan and her mother talking, or the click of Baby’s nails on the tile floor just before she greeted Callie, barking happily.

But all she’d heard was the beeping of the house alarm. There’d been no barking, no laughter from the kitchen. Nothing.

And then she’d seen Baby on the floor of the darkened house.

“Baby!” she’d screamed.

She’d dropped to the floor, reaching out for her beloved pet but paused when her hands had met a warm, wet puddle. Thick liquid had covered her skin and even in the darkness, she’d known it was blood.

Callie had stood up, going for the light, but the incessant beeping wouldn’t stop. She couldn’t think with the noise. She’d reached up to turn off the alarm when the first slice of pain had exploded across her back.

Callie remembered falling to the ground, writhing and crying as a shadowy figure stood over her. “Please, there’s money upstairs. Just don’t—”

He’d leaned down over her, and she’d gotten a look at his face.

“Tristan?” But he’d looked nothing like the curly haired man who loved to make her laugh. His normally blue eyes were wide and black in the darkness, and his lips had twisted into a feral snarl.

“Who sent you?” he’d hissed, spittle dropping onto her cheek.

“Tris, it’s me! It’s Callie!” she’d yelled and put her hands up to push at his chest.

And then, as he’d pulled his arm back, she’d seen it: a knife, covered in something dark red and glistening. A knife from their set that sat in the corner of the kitchen—another engagement gift.

Suddenly, Tristan brought that knife down into her right shoulder. Callie had felt each snap of bone and muscle as he’d torn through them.

“Who sent you to kill me?” Tristan yanked the knife out of her shoulder, and she’d screamed in pain, the wet rush of her blood pouring out across her shirt.

Callie had sucked in air, sobbing hysterically as she’d tried to hold his arm back, t