Page 22 of Love You To Pieces

My heart speeds up for just a few beats, and I bite my lip, mentally warring with myself about what I should do. Should hide, or keep going, or something else that maybe I haven’t considered yet.

But do I really have a choice? There’s nothing in here that makes for a great weapon, except maybe the hammer on the worktable that shines in the light cast from the sun through a small window. But even that feels desperate.

God, I miss Sally.

Another door catches my eye, one that will prevent me from having to leave in the direction facing the house, and should put me on the path to the next outbuilding. It’s better than nothing, and I’m heading for it before I can talk myself out of doing so. Hesitation won’t help me here, and I have to get going before they realize I’m gone. I have a feeling the two men are a lot better armed than I am, and the gun at Fox’s belt, sitting beside his badge, has gained a permanent home in my memory any time I think of him or the consequences of being caught.

The path between buildings is deliberate, I realize, with a little fence between the buildings and the rest of the backyard. There are even stones in the ground, flat and worn from rain and time, that march from one door to the next, spanning the whole twenty or so feet of ground. The second building, another wooden structure, feels a lot less welcoming than the first, with a door that’s a little rusted at the hinges and boarded-up windows, instead of clear to let the light filter in like those in the workshop were.

But I don’t let that stop me. I can’t, when this could be the building where Pearl⁠—

“Come back, little rabbit!” The voice echoes across the property, making me jump off the stone I’m standing on as my heart tries to take flight like a bird. The voice sounds like Fox, though it’s loud and sonorous, like he’s got his hands cupped around his mouth to make his words carry. “Come back inside! Let’s just talk, okay?”

His use of ‘little rabbit’ sends a shiver down my spine, though I suppose it’s better than being called meat like before.

But once I make the connection between rabbit and prey animal in my head, I’m a bit less unaffected by the nickname. My fingers curl into my aching palms, which burn once more now that I’ve scraped them open yet again, and I glance behind me, ducking further into the shadows of the outbuilding so I’m hopefully invisible to anyone back at the house.

I need to get out of here, though. Whatever grace period I had is gone now, and I have to find something—anything—in this old building to help me escape. At this point, I’ll even take the screwdriver I picked up back in the auto shop basement, though Sally would be my preference for a self-defense tool.

“Please, please,” I whisper, closing the distance between me and the door and laying my palms on it. “Please, Pearl, be inside.” Silently, I add a similar plea that I’ll find Sally, or a Sally sibling in here too.

The smell hits me just as I make the move to open the door, but it’s too late and I’m too committed to stop now. The stench wafts over me, invading my nostrils and somehow getting even worse.

“Oh fuck,” I gasp, immediately putting my hands over my face, no matter how dirty the bandages are. Even breathing through my mouth doesn’t work as I step inside, eyes wide, trying to find the source of the stench. It smells sweet, but sour and wrong at the same time. Cloying and dreadful, like something fucking died in here, and⁠—

My steps come to a stop when I face a large, tilted wooden table against one wall. Eerily, the space reminds me of the auto shop basement, from the wall of tools to the cuffs on the table that are currently open and empty.

The table itself, however, is occupied, much to my absolute horror.

“Ariana…” I nearly drop to my knees when I see her, and once I do, I can’t look away. She lies as if she’s sleeping, with her head turned away from me, hiding the gruesome damage to her face. The blood on her clothes has dried enough for it to look like dark brown-burgundy paint, but I’m not fooled, and neither is my stomach.

“Oh, Ariana.” I can’t even pretend to be surprised, though nausea curls in my gut and floods my mouth with saliva. I’m so sorry, I don’t say. My mouth won’t let me. But I am sorry, because I could’ve—should’ve—tried harder to save her.

But I hadn’t even really managed to save myself.

The sound of the door creaking open behind me takes a few moments to reach my brain, and when it does, I dive for the worktable, finding something—a knife, I realize—and spinning around with it in my hand to face whatever’s coming.

“It’s tragic, isn’t it?” The blond man, whose name I don’t know, stands leaning against the door, his eyes on Ariana. “And worse, it’s a waste.” His voice is empty, making me wonder just how tragic he finds all of this.

“Don’t say that,” I whisper, my hand shaking as I hold the blade out between us. “Don’t talk about her like that.”

His blue eyes find mine in the small, dim building, though he barely looks at the knife. He doesn’t even move or deign to look worried. He just leans there, studying me. “You shouldn’t be here,” he remarks at last, a sigh on his lips. “You should’ve stayed where we put you.” With a low huff, like I’ve dramatically inconvenienced him, he pushes to stand up straight and drops his hands to his sides, rolling his neck. “You won’t like me putting you back in your room nearly so much the second time, I promise you that. But you’re asking for it, little rabbit, hopping around in places you shouldn’t.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Iglance down at the knife I’m holding, like I for some reason need to make sure it’s still there. Given his reaction—or lack of one—it feels like I don’t have a weapon at all. From what I can tell, the man is unarmed, though he doesn’t seem to see that as a problem.

“Where’s my dog?” I snap quietly, trying to ignore the way Ariana’s body is right there behind me, mutilated and butchered. It’s so hard not to turn and look at her. Almost fucking impossible not to check to see if she’s breathing, as stupid as that is.

Because she shouldn’t be dead. Things like this don’t happen outside of movies and scary stories. They don’t happen in real life.

Or well, they aren’t supposed to, anyway.

“Your dog,” he repeats, his voice is flat, making it come out as more of a statement than a question. “Your dog? You’ve been in Wolf Lake for four days and you’ve claimed the local menace to society as yours?” He lifts a brow, looking expectant, instead of letting the question be rhetorical.

“Uh, yeah.” I barely hesitate. “Yeah, I absolutely am. She helped me kill a man. We’re sort of trauma-bonded at this point.” Shifting my grip on the knife, I add, “And my chainsaw. Trauma-bonded to that too, so if you could give it back⁠—”

Without warning, the man laughs. A full, mirthful sound that makes him lean back against the doorframe with a look of absolute delight on his handsome face. All I can do is stare at him, from the stubble on his jaw to the way his blond hair catches the light from the open door behind him. He’s gorgeous, which I hate admitting to myself.