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So I just step off the porch, turning on my heel, and trudge back toward my truck. The wind’s cool, whispering of winter, but the sun’s warm against my skin.

And then I hear it. The click of the door opening. A breath of silence. And then?—

“Wait!”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

EDIE

When I hear the crunch of tire wheels through my open windows, I nearly have a heart attack. I’m draped on the sofa, reading a romance novel on my phone. My tenth this week. If I don’t keep myself distracted, I’ll start panicking about Scott.

And thinking about Sawyer.

The tire crunch sends me into full panic mode, though. Scott is keeping his search for me private. No weepy missing person’s press conferences. No announcements on his various social media accounts, no earnest videos of him begging for any information about the whereabouts of his beloved wife. He’s rich enough that he’s a public figure even if he’s not really famous, but he’s keeping this close to his chest. And that terrifies me

It terrifies me what he wants to do when he finds me.

So when I hear the tire wheels, I immediately leap to my feet and pull up Charlotte’s number. If she gets any kind of weird call from me, she’ll be on it.

I sidle up to the window, listening. With the windows open, I can hear everything. Heavy, steady footsteps marching across the dirt. Steppingon my porch.

I peer out, trying to hide behind the curtains. I can’t see the porch from here, or who’s standing on it, but I can see the beat-up pickup truck parked behind my car. It was probably red once, but now it’s a kind of dusty pink color.

I hold my breath, waiting for the doorbell. For a knock. There’s nothing. Just the scrape of boots across the dirt. And then?—

My heart drops out of my chest as the figure moves into view. Tall, lanky, dark curly hair, a blue flannel shirt.

Sawyer.

Sawyer. I toss my phone aside, my panic subsiding a little. Not entirely, of course. Has he killed someone again? Brought me another fucking head? I have the thought, sudden and sharp, that the reason I haven’t seen him for a week is that he drove that dusty red pickup truck all the way to California to collect Scott’s head.

Don’t be stupid. That would take longer than a week. You’d have heard about it.

Then I realize Sawyer’s leaving. I also realize that, inexplicably, I don’t want him to.

So before I can talk reason into myself, I drop the curtain and fling the front door open and shout, “Wait!”

He stops, head lifting, and I notice what he left for me.

A small white baker’s box and a small white bird skull.

I step onto the porch, the wind fluttering the hem of my dress. “Wait,” I say again, and he turns his head, eyes dark and shrouded. I pick up the bird skull.

“Did you kill this, too?”

He turns around completely to face me. God, I hate how fucking handsome he is, every part of him lean and angular. When he was stalking this camp fifteen years ago, his knife blade dripping blood, I never would have expected him to look like that under the filthy mask.

He frowns at me.

“Don’t kill birds,” he calls out. “Not unless I intend to eat ‘em.”

I blink. It’s not remotely the answer I expected from him.

“I found it,” he goes on. “Thought it—thought you might like it. That’s for you, too.” He nods toward the white box, shoves his hands into his pockets, fixes his gaze on me. It would all be normal—sweet even—if he wasn’t sizing me up like the murderous predator he is.

I set the bird skull back down, careful not to break it. It’s beautiful. Beautiful and strange and eerie, a memento of a creature that once twittered in the tree branches and fluttered through the forest but hasn’t for a long, long time.

Footsteps scrape against the dirt. He moves closer to me, slow and cautious. I pick up the white box and pull it open, half-knowing what I’m going to find but still feeling this gut punch when I see it, piles of sugared butter and glittery marzipan leaves.