Page 69 of Blindside Sinner

He’s waiting by his car, a hopped-up Lexus with black rims and tints several shades past legal. There’s not another soul in sight. Just empty concrete wasteland as far as the eye can see, studded with the wrecked carcasses of ruined warehouses here and there.

“Sloan.”

I hand over my delivery. He opens the flap of the envelope and peruses it with a practiced eye. I’m pretty sure he could eyeball a stack of cash down to the exact dollar from a mile away.

Then he nods and stuffs it in his pocket. “You know, if you’re tired of this arrangement, we could work something else out.” He gives me an up and down that makes my guts twist.

“I’m going to stick to cash, if you don’t mind.” I nod and start to walk back to my car.

“In that case, interest rates are going up.”

I freeze and sigh. “Of course they are. How much now?”

“Extra two hundred a month. Or, like I said, you could work that part off another way.”

Again, he leers at me, and again, I want to vomit. I resume my march back to safety, my skin crawling like there are ants scurrying all over me.

“Suit yourself!” he calls after me. “But it’s a volatile market these days. You never know when things will change at a moment’s notice.”

I hear him chuckling as he climbs back into his car. The door slams, his engine roars to life, and then he whips past, missing me by an inch or two at most.

I get back behind the wheel and shut the door, then I close my eyes and let my head fall back on the seat. My heart rate takes a long time to come down after these meetings. I tell myself it’s fine, it’s just a loan, it’s no different than dealing with a bank. But my body knows better. My body knows that every payment drop-off has a dozen different potential endings, and very few of them are pretty.

The Bloodhound’s gleaming, leering blue eyes are staring back at me from the shadows. Then I blink and they’re gone. Just an illusion.

I think of Beck’s blue eyes instead. I’m proud I slammed the door in his face when he came to apologize. I won’t let him bully me, won’t let him break my heart and glue it back together just to break it all over again.

I know there was something there. Sure, he may have had a cracked skull, but the things he told me, the feelings we shared? Those were real.

To me, at least.

But I don’t know if they were real to him, and I can’t afford to find out. I need to protect myself first and foremost—from Beck, from the Bloodhound, from the whole damn world. If the circumstances were different, I’d get the hell out of Dodge and start fresh somewhere new. But I need the job, the money, the stability—and, perhaps more than anything else, I need the alarm system to keep me safe now that I’ve been found again.

Two more letters in the last week. Black roses as a signature, no name. They’re closing in. Nothing new, just more of the same shit, but it’s enough to put the fear in my heart.

So for now, I’m stuck right where I am.

Between a bad boy with a busted heart and a bloodhound with my scent in his nose.

I take one more deep, shuddering breath, and then I fire up my engine so I can go back and do what I have to do.

The ride back is busier than the one out here. Seattle is waking up, one angry driver at a time. I weave through the traffic all the way back to Beck’s place.

I need to shower the remnants of the Bloodhound off of me before I go into the house and begin my duties for the day. But I see the mailman stuffing the box as I pull up, so I park and get out to check.

It’s a stack of the usual. A bundle of fan mail, pre-sorted by Beck’s agency. Bills, flyers, junk.

And an unmarked envelope with my name on the front.

I swallow past my suddenly dry throat and shove that one in my purse. I glance up at the windows, but I don’t see movement anywhere.

Thank God.Then I get back in my car and finish the drive into the garage.

I practically sprint through the house to get to my guesthouse, where I stash this letter in the back of a drawer along with all the other unopened threats. I ought to burn them, but I can’t bring myself to do it, for reasons I can’t explain.

My shower is short and not nearly as spiritually cleansing as I’d hoped it would be. I get out still feeling sticky and gross. I make quick work of my hair, dress in ripped black jeans and a white off-the-shoulder sweater, then go inside to start the day’s duties.

It’s almost dawn. Beck will be awake soon.

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