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“Thanks. Make sure Blue has my phone number, will you?”
I nod. “Oh, almost forgot.” I reach into my pocket to take the earrings Isabelle had lent Blue. I’d found them on the nightstand in that cabin. “Here.”
She seems surprised as she holds out her hand to take them. I call out a quick goodbye to the kids, promise I’ll be back later and leave the house.
9
BLUE
Istartle awake after a nightmare, bolting upright, gasping for breath. I still feel his hands on me. Hear him telling me exactly how he’d hurt me before killing me. The image that has me shooting up in the bed, though, is that of Wyatt Hoxton, his eyes gouged out, his own hunting knife buried in his gut just before he crashed to the floor dead.
My hands slide to my throat, and I feel the collar there. Hoxton’s words repeat. How he’d decapitate me to take the lock. How casually he’d said it.
I shudder with sudden cold. I came closer than ever to dying a brutal death last night. Closer even than when I’d run into Hoxton that night at my house.
I have a flash of Zeke breaking the door down just before I passed out. I see him blinding Hoxton with those stake-like nails. He was so controlled. So outwardly calm. He didn’t hesitate, not once. I knew he was capable of murder from day one. But last night, I understood it on a different level.
The things I’m feeling for him now, after last night, they’re confusing. I should be afraid, shouldn’t I? Shouldn’t any man capable of such violence strike terror in me? The thought of him, though, doesn’t do that. Instead, it’s almost as though some warm kindling is lit inside my chest. I shake my head. There is something wrong with me.
I look to the side of the bed he’d slept on. He’d stayed with me when I told him I was afraid. I’m not sure how long, but it doesn’t matter. He hadn’t left me alone when I’d needed him.
I push the covers off moving more slowly than usual as I get out of the bed, my body aching, and go to the bathroom. Every step is painful. I relieve myself, then, after washing my hands, I force myself to take a good, long look in the mirror.
My face is bruised, the side of my lip is cut, but my body, hell, my body is covered in deep red welts. I remember how gently Zeke had taken care of me, cleaning and bandaging the worst after washing me.
I’d washed him, too.
And then I’d asked him to make love to me.
With a groan, I wrap a towel around myself and make my way to my room where I get dressed, pulling on my jeans and a sweater. I need to keep it together now. Last night, I came dangerously close to losing it. Last night, after Zeke brought me back, I let myself be vulnerable. I can’t do that. Not now. Coming apart thinking about what happened to me won’t help me and it certainly won’t help Wren. It won’t stop my father, or the man Hoxton was working for, from coming for me. Wren needs me and I can’t waste time processing. So, I do what I’ve learned to do well over the last few years. I shove all those thoughts and feelings into a box, lock it up tight and bury it deep. I’ll deal with those things later.
Or never.
The house is quiet as I make my way downstairs. The clock in the hallway tells me it’s after eight at night. I slept the whole day. My stomach growls. I walk into the kitchen absently thinking I need to call Wren, stopping abruptly when I see my phone on the kitchen counter.
My phone was in my clutch last night. That clutch was on the floor of the car.
Along with the phone was the flash drive.
I pick up the phone which is lying on a note scribbled on a piece of paper from Zeke telling me he’ll be back soon.
Shit.
There’s only one way he’d have gotten that phone and that would be if he found my purse in the car. And if he found my purse then he has the flash drive and he knows I lied to him.
Will he be angry?
I shake my head. He had it last night. He’d have gotten to it before he got to me.
Before I have a chance to think about what to do next, I hear a door and footsteps. I spin to find Zeke walking into the kitchen. He was here all along? Where did he come from? The sound didn’t come from the direction of the study.
He pauses at the threshold of the kitchen, eyebrows furrowed as he takes me in. His gaze moves to the phone in my hand. He knows that I know he has the drive. He wanted me to know.
“How are you feeling?” he asks, walking toward me.
“Like I’ve been run over by a truck.” His eyes search my face and the look inside them feels different. Awkward, almost. Something has changed between us.
But I guess witnessing someone murder the man who was torturing you will do that.
