Page 30 of Jagged Line Paradise

I don’t know what she’s saying. She sounds like she’s lost her mind, but it doesn’t matter. I just pull her with me as I take a couple of steps backward to sit on a chair behind me, pulling her sideways onto my lap. I cradle her closely in my arms, adjusting the coat with one hand to keep her covered.

“What happened? Fuck, what happened to you, Lonnie?” I kiss the side of her head.

Her eyes flicker to glance up at me from beneath her lashes, though she doesn’t lift her head from my shoulder. She looks exhausted, like fucking hell...like death.

“It was him,” she says quietly.

“It was who?”

“The Canyon Carver.”

Officers leap into action when they hear that name. I guess the suspicion is clearly off me now that Lonnie is here, and they can see with their own damn eyes that it wasn’t me who hurt her. I hear Jack say something about pulling everything they can find on my dad and chaos explodes around us.

I softly kiss down the side of her head, down her cheek, trying to make sense of things. She said something about my dad, but that can’t be right. I ask her, “Who, Lonnie? Who did this to you?”

“It was your dad.”

My heart skips a beat.

And another.

“Your dad is the Canyon Carver.”

Flatline.

The whole world stops spinning.

Lonnie was made a victim, and my father is a serial killer.

My dad is the infamous Canyon Carver.

Chapter 9

Avalon

AS THE ORANGElight of the sun kisses the line of the mountains, blending into that bright raspberry-pink that darkens the skyline, I inhale deeply and memorize the scent of the open desert. Two weeks ago, I thought I’d never see this perfect sunset again. I’m lucky to have survived, but things aren’t easy.

I snuggle in closer to Andrés at my side as his arm tightens around my waist. He’s been good to me—really good to me—but things have been hard on him, too.

When the news came out that the Canyon Carver had been caught—caught, not killed, because I’d failed to make sure he was dead—Andrés was put under the microscope. The police had originally pinned him as a suspect before I got away—when they first decided my disappearance was the result of foul play—and the media had a field day with that story.

Neither of us have talked to the press, but other people who hardly knew us did. The story got spun and twisted and the truth was lost in the mess of it. Andrés’ reputation took a hit—not that it was perfect before. He got far more attention as the son of a killer than I did as his last victim and sole survivor.

The whole thing has taken a toll on the both of us.

He presses his lips to the top of my head with a bruising kiss and he sighs. It’s heavy, his sigh, and I feel the weight of it settle uncomfortably across my shoulders.

“I have to talk to you about something,” he says softly, hesitantly.

I pull back, turning my head to look at him and he pulls his arm away. “What?”

He doesn’t look at me. His eyes are fixed on the ground far beneath our feet, which dangle over the edge of the bluff. “I’ve been thinking about what’s next.”

My shoulders shrug with tension and I shake my head before looking off toward the sunset. “I get the feeling I don’t want to hear this.”

He turns toward me, pulling one knee back onto the ledge. “My aunt offered to let me stay with her.”

I press my hands hard into the ground at either side of my hips, gripping the edge. “Your aunt in Los Angeles.” It’s a statement, not a question. I know exactly where this is going.

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