Page 129 of Wild Sanctuary

A knock sounds from the front door. Three sharp raps.

“That’ll be my nephew.” Marcus sets his napkin on the table and pushes back from his chair, his usual unhurried self. “He’s dropping by to pick up a check I’ve been holding for him. Won’t be a minute.”

The lie is smooth and practiced, and I’m in no doubt he’s had it on hand since before he arrived, ready to deploy.

He gives my shoulder a squeeze on the way past. The warmth of his hand stays there after he’s gone, making my skin crawl.

The second his boots leave the kitchen, I’m out of my chair and across the tile without remembering the decision to stand.

It’s twenty feet to the back door. Beyond, there are two hundred yards of open dirt between Dave and me, but the yard is exposed.

The house buys me time until Wyatt can get here. It also buys me the chance at a confession. On record.

Decision made, I make a beeline to the knife block on the counter. My fingers skip the chef’s knife and close around the paring knife, the smallest in the block, just a three-inch blade with a wooden handle. The steel clears the slot without a whisper of sound.

I slide the blade into the back pocket of my jeans, handle up so it sits against the curve of my lower back, then pull the tail of my shirt down over it.

Then I pull my phone from my jeans pocket.

Voice memo.

Record.

The red dot flares to life, and I set the phone face down on my thigh before sliding back into my chair, scooting in so my lap isn’t visible.

Down the hall, Marcus’s voice is warm and ordinary, saying something I can’t quite make out before a second voice answers lower and brief.

It just takes ten seconds, maybe twelve, and the coffee mug is back in my hand before boots start down the hall.

There are two sets this time. One heavy, one lighter.

I plaster a look I hope says calm indifference on my face right as Marcus reaches the doorway.

“Sorry about that, sweetheart.” Marcus comes back into the kitchen with his hands in his pockets.

Stan is a step behind him, filling the doorway. He’s bigger than he looked in Alma’s photo. And a long way from Sage Harbor.

“Daisy, this here’s my nephew Stan. Does some work for me around town when he’s free. Stan, Daisy is Tom Monroe’s girl, all grown up. She’s thinking about makin’ Blackstone Creek her home now. Figured you two were overdue an introduction.”

Every word of it is true. It’s also a sentence passed in a language Marcus thinks only he and Stan speak.

Tom Monroe’s girl isn’t going back to Denver. And she’ll keep digging until she reaches both of us.

He’s using my own plans to get rid of me.

The coffee in my stomach turns to cement.

Stan doesn’t say hello.

The grin that was trying too hard in Alma’s photo isn’t here. In fact, there’s no emotion on his face at all.

My pulse is so loud I can hear it in my teeth as the paring knife warms against the small of my back.

“Stan.” I force the word past the bile rising in my throat. “Nice to meet you.”

Both men just look at one another. A silent exchange I can’t read, and in the two seconds it takes, every warm minute we just spent at this table falls away as though it never existed.

For a long moment, nothing moves in the kitchen. Then Marcus sets his mug on the counter behind him without looking.