Page 29 of Untamed Sinner

I come back with a purple shower poof, a vanilla-scented candle, and a throw pillow that says HOME SWEET HOME in aggressively cheerful embroidery. No vibrator—apparently Iron Ridge isn’t that progressive.

I put the candle on Hendricks’s bathroom counter, the poof in his shower, and the pillow dead center on his immaculate gray couch.

Smiling, I stand back and admire my work. “There. Much less serial killer chic.”

My phone chimes with a text. I pull it out of my pocket. It’s a text from Gabriel.

The Devil You Know

He wants a deal. Freedom for information.

Of course Turner wants a deal. That's what men like him do—they negotiate, they leverage, they find angles. Even locked in a cell chained to the wall, he's still playing the game.

The problem is, we're never letting him go. Gabriel knows that. I know that. And Turner probably knows it too.

No go.

I hit send and slip the phone back into my pocket.

Cole Turner can rot.

I have a girl to find.

30

HENDRICKS

By the time I pull up to the house, I've almost convinced myself I'm back in control.

Almost.

Mandy’s truck is parked facing out, like she might want a quick getaway, and I park directly in front of it to block her in.

Two can play this game.

I go inside and freeze.

The house is quiet. Too quiet. Something feels different. The air is warmer, charged with a presence that wasn't here when I left. The scent of sweetness, like cookies, lingers in the air. I do a quick sweep—kitchen, hallway, living room.

In the living room, on my sofa, there’s a god-awful pillow with bright flowers on it and HOME SWEET HOME scrawled across it.

I stare at it. I never knew a pillow could mock you. I contemplate throwing it in the trash, but it has to mean something. I’m just not certain what yet, so I leave the fucking thing exactly where she put it and head upstairs.

Her door is shut. I pause, listening, but I don’t hear anything. She doesn’t seem like a napper.

I think about knocking, to check on her, but I can hear Luke call me a mother hen, so I continue down the hall to my bedroom.

The door is open. I always close it.

I don’t wonder what happened. It’s Mandy, of course. Frowning, I step inside. Feeling like I’m a bear looking for evidence of Goldilocks, I glance at my bed, relieved it looks undisturbed and unmolested by embroidered pillows.

However, the bathroom door is ajar.

Pushing it wide open, I stand in the doorway and look around.

The first thing I notice is the candle—vanilla-scented, which maybe accounts for the sweet smell through the house. Steam still clings to the mirror. The air is humid, thick with the scent of soap and shampoo. Her shampoo. I can smell it from here—clean citrus and a soft floral note. My brain catalogs it before I can stop it, and I know I’ll recognize that scent anywhere.

There’s a purple poof hanging in my shower. On the shelf, where my soap normally is, there’s a bottle of shampoo. I pick it up and inhale, though I know it’s hers.