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“I hated how they treated me, too,” I say quietly, pulling my sweater sleeves over my hands. “But I don’t want to talk about that.”

“Then tell me what you do want to talk about,” he says. “Tell me where you were born, to start.”

And, somewhat to my surprise, I do. I tell him about growing up rich in the DC suburbs and how I never felt like I fit in. How I went to school out in California because I wanted to get as far away from here—nothere, nothim,but from my family, from all their expectations. I tell him how I love the Pacific Ocean, how it’s dark and cold even on the hottest days, and how Charlotte and I used to go swimming every chance we got. I tell him how I learned to surf. I tell him about Charlotte, how I met her at an art gallery opening and we became best friends because she was the only person in my life who let me feel like myself. And I tell him, shyly, that he makes me feel the same way, stunning myself by the truth of those words—a truth I’ve been avoiding since he stepped into my cabin nearly a month ago.

“That means a lot,” he says softly. “Something like that.” By this point, the soup is ready, and he scoops us up two big bowlsand brings it over to the table along with two bottles of beer that he fishes out of the ice chest, the glass dripping with melting ice.

And while we eat, we talk. It shocks me how easy the conversation flows, between me and the killer who haunted my nightmares—or who was supposed to, anyway. He tells me he’s never actually seen the ocean, not even the Gulf of Mexico. He tells me how his mom had left him a few years before my final summer at Camp Head Start, how he roamed around the South and that was how he met his two friends, Jaxon and Ambrose. He tells me how he missed the mountains and the winter snow and that was why he came back, just a few months before I started my last season at camp. He doesn’t talk about killing, not directly, but it’s always there, simmering under the surface—his mother’s training, his time with his friends.

It should bother me.

It doesn’t bother me.

It’s just who heis.

We keep talking well after we finish eating. I help him clean up, laughing as we wash the dishes together, the water hot and soapy. Afterward, he takes me out to the front steps of the church. The clouds have all cleared away and the air is frigid, but that coldness sharpens the stars hanging over the clearing. I lean into his arms, staring up at them, trying to find the constellations I learned a long time ago, when I was a child, before my mother and Scott and my sickness and the world had done all their damage.

Being there, in Sawyer’s arms, it’s almost like I can find that wholeness again.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

SAWYER

Edie’s scared.

She hides it well enough, at least in the way she acts around me. That first night—me cooking her dinner and talking with her until my voice got hoarse—she didn’t act scared at all. It’s ‘cause she ain’t scared ofme, and I can’t tell you how good that makes me feel.

But she’s still scared.

It’s a little lighter now, two days after she came to stay. And don’t get me wrong: it’s not unpleasant. In fact, it’s the opposite. A fucking aphrodisiac. I have to conjure up every ounce of willpower to stop myself from throwing her over my furniture and fucking her every time she’s nearby. I can barely stop myself from touching her—grabbing her hand, pulling her up to me, running my teeth across her collarbone. It makes it hard to get any work done.

I do try, though. The cold weather’s coming in fast—faster than usual, it feels like, with the nights coating the graveyard grass in frost. Thank god for the generator. And for Edie. We fucked both nights since she got here, and both nights we fell asleep naked, our bodies warming up the space beneath the blankets.

But the early cold has me worried since I haven’t finished sealing up the church windows and patching the gaps in the slats. I need to get everything sealed up tight before the cold comes, and that’s on top of knowing I’ll have to handle Edie’s ex.

“Do you think your ex-husband’s gonna come out here himself?” I ask her one afternoon. I’m fixing the rotting sideboards and Edie’s helping, handing me tools and holding up the plywood I nicked off a construction site back when I was in Roanoke. It’s sunny but cold, and Edie shivers beneath the flannel I lent her. We’re gonna need to take care of that, too, the way she doesn’t have any winter clothes, but I don’t much like the idea of her going into town alone for shopping. She won’t let me go with her, either. Says she’s worried about the cops connecting us to the PI’s disappearance.

“I don’t know.” Her voice gets kind of small, the way it does whenever I bring him up. I know she doesn’t want to talk about him. But I need to be prepared if I’m gonna keep her safe. “He’s the kind of man to have other people do his dirty work, you know?”

I snort at that. “He tried to kill you with his bare hands.”

As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I feel bad for being so blunt about it. But Edie just sighs and says, “That’s because I was right in front of him. Now—he’s probably going to send people.”

I had a feeling that might be the case. “Good to know. I’ll get ready for them.” I tap the nail into place, then step off my ladder to admire my handiwork. The plywood looks good enough. It’ll keep the cold out, at least. I move down to the next rotting patch, and Edie follows behind me, her fear piqued. It stirs up my senses.

“What about the police?”

“What did I tell you? You don’t gotta worry about them.”

“One of them shot you.”

I turn away from the ladder, vaguely irritated. Edie gives me a devilish grin.

“It’s true,” she says.

“That was fifteen years ago,” I say. “And I was distracted. What I’m talking about now is a plan to keep you safe.”

The devilish grin disappears, replaced by that wide-eyed look she gets when I talk about protecting her.