Page 10 of Bird on a Blade (Hunter’s Heart #1)

CHAPTER NINE

EDIE

W hen I wake up the next morning, the lemony sunlight streaming in through the window tells me it’s at least noon, probably later. For a moment, I just lay in the bed, staring up at the ceiling, trying to ignore the faint, pleasant ache between my legs, evidence that what happened last night was real.

Sawyer Caldwell is alive.

But more than that, Sawyer Caldwell made me come four times over the course of an hour.

I sit up and reach for my cell phone on the bedside table, then remember it’s not there. After Sawyer slipped out of the cabin last night, I waited until I was certain he was gone and then went outside to get my purse. I’ll give him this much: He took the head. Blood still slicked across the porch, though.

I brought my purse inside and took out the phone, my hands shaking. But I did not dial 911. I did not call the police because I knew they would contact Scott, and, absurdly, I’m more afraid of him than I am of Sawyer Caldwell.

Instead, I set the phone down on the kitchen counter two feet from where Sawyer made me sob with overwhelming pleasure while he jerked himself off. I found his cum splattered across the kitchen tile after he left. It should have disgusted me, and it did. But it also sent a weird, uncomfortable curl of heat between my thighs.

Sort of like what I feel now.

I move slowly, pushing myself out of bed, and get dressed. All my movements are mechanical. Robotic. I try to keep my thoughts focused, but they keep slipping into memories of last night.

I’ve never even had two orgasms in one session, much less four.

When I go out into the front of the cabin, part of me expects ( hopes? ) Sawyer will be there, watching me with those dark, burning eyes. He’s not, of course. Everything looks exactly as it did when I went to bed last night. My phone is even still sitting on the counter.

I pick it up, knowing I really should call the police. Scott’s an entire continent away, and a serial killer is living next to me in the woods. But then I see that it’s nearly 3 PM and I’ve missed five calls and at least a dozen text messages—all of them from Charlotte. For a moment, I’m struck with a sudden surge of panic.

How did she know ?

But of course she didn’t. Sawyer Caldwell has nothing to do with why she was texting. I skim through the messages, and my panic doesn’t subside but changes. Becomes more immediate. More urgent.

Charlotte

Did you eat dinner?

No response? SRSLY?

Getting worried. Call me.

Edie, call me ASAP. It’s not about the eating. Im serious .

She even left a voicemail, which makes my heart jitter around in my chest because Charlotte hates voicemail. I don’t even listen to it, just call her, my hand shaking as I hold the phone up to my ear. I can’t handle video chat this morning.

It rings twice before she answers.

“Holy shit, Edie, are you okay?”

I lean against the counter and try not to think about how I’d leaned against it last night, an apparently undead murderer’s head between my legs. I don’t even know how to answer that question.

“I’m fine,” I finally say, which isn’t remotely true. I just hope she doesn’t expect me to explain why I didn’t call her back last night. Or this morning. She knows I like to get up early.

But Charlotte lets out a long, relieved breath, and my panic tightens in my chest again. “What’s going on?” I say. “Charlotte?”

“Fuck, I was so worried.” She takes another deep breath, the rush of air filling up my ear. “Scott’s looking for you.”

I freeze. Sawyer Caldwell suddenly seems very far away. Of the two of them, he’s never actually tried to kill me.

I would never do something like that to you.

“How do you know?” The question comes out in a rasp.

“Two weaselly pieces of shit came by my apartment this morning. Early, too, like 7 AM.” I can tell how rattled she is, which just scares me even more. “They said they were PIs, that he was worried about you, that you might have hurt yourself .” She spits that last part out like its venom. “Wanted to know if I knew where you might have gone.”

My chest is so tight that it doesn’t matter how deeply I try to breathe, I can’t get enough air. The kitchen spins around in a whirl of steel appliances and sunlight.

“What’d you say?” I manage to choke out.

“Said I had no fucking idea, of course, and told them to dig up the backyard at your house.”

I let out a disbelieving laugh. “You didn’t!”

“Sure as shit I did. Not that they’ll do it. Like I said, he definitely hired them.” Charlotte pauses for a minute, and all I can hear is my heartbeat pounding in my ears. “I had an idea, though. Something to throw him off the trail.”

“I’m not letting you do something dangerous.”

“It’s not dangerous. You left your credit cards, remember?”

I blink. I did leave my credit cards, my bank cards, all of it. The only thing I kept was the card to my private bank account, where I squirreled away money from the low-paying nonprofit work I did as Scott’s pretty little trophy wife. My grandmother had her expensive lawyers set it up when I got married, saying every woman needs secret money of her own.

She was right about that.

“What about the credit cards?” I ask.

“I’ll start using them,” she says. “Here and there around California. Create a false trail.” I can imagine her counting off on her fingers as she talks. “I can hit San Jose in a bit. Then Berkeley—I want to meet with an art gallery up there anyway.”

It’s not the worst idea. Anything to keep him from looking toward the East Coast. Still, my heart’s still pounding up in my chest. “Just be careful,” I tell her. “They’re going to be watching you, too, you know.”

“And I’ll keep an eye on ‘em. You think I can’t skip a tail?” Charlotte laughs, but I just deepen my frown as I curl my fist up in my shirt.

“I’m sure you can,” I tell her. “But Scott has money. Resources. He’s obviously trying to keep this quiet?—”

“Edie. I’ve got you. They’re focused on you being in Cali, and we’re going to keep it that way. Got it?”

“Yeah.” I lift my gaze up from the counter, at the small little living room. Images from last night keep flashing through my head. Sawyer Caldwell sliding his long killer’s fingers into my pussy. His eyes darkening like a thunderstorm when he saw the bruises Scott ringed around my neck .

How did I get to be so fucked up, that I married one psychopath and then nearly fucked another?

“Edie?” Charlotte’s voice cuts through my thoughts.

“I’m here,” I tell her. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah, and we’re going to keep you that way. Have you eaten yet today?”

I close my eyes. “I slept in. I’m about to fix something.”

“Slept in ?”

Part of me wants to tell her. Charlotte has an artist’s dark streak. A fascination with the macabre. But my mouth won’t form the words. As far as she knows, Sawyer Caldwell tried to kill me fifteen years ago in the exact same manner my husband tried to kill me last week.

And trying to explain how he’s still alive… even I don’t understand that.

“I was exhausted from driving out here,” I finally say. “Seriously. I’m going to fix lunch right now, and then I’m going to drive into Roanoke to get real groceries.”

“Text me when you’re back,” she says. “And I’ll keep you posted, okay? Especially if Scott starts pulling out that mourning husband missing person bullshit.”

“Thanks.” My throat’s dry as we say our goodbyes and I hang up. For a minute I just stand there in the kitchen. The last twenty-four feels like a dream, like something disconnected from reality. I escaped Scott and ran into a nightmare, who?—

Who killed for me.

The porch. The blood. That feels like a dream, too, something too bizarre to be real. But that’s the last fucking thing I need. No one comes out here, Sawyer said, but what the hell does he know? He said he’d been in the ground for the last fifteen years, whatever that means. Surely he wasn’t being literal .

I suck down a gulp of air and stride over to the front door before I can stop myself. My stomach surges as I brace myself for seeing that gore in the sunlight. At least I won’t have to see the head again. I don’t remember the man’s face. I only know who it is because of what Sawyer said to me. How he deserved it.

Did he deserve it?

But when I pull the door open, the porch is clean. Not a trace of blood anywhere.

I blink down at it, not sure what to make of it. I’m so unmoored after all the trauma of the last few weeks, of the last few years, that for the first time, it occurs to me that maybe I hallucinated Sawyer’s visit last night. That it had been an exhaustion dream.

You found his cum on your kitchen floor .

I stumble back into the cabin, leaving the front door open to let in the afternoon sunlight and the cool September breeze. I barely realize what I’m doing until I’m standing over the trash can. I press the lever with my foot, and there it is. Proof.

The bundle of paper napkins I used to clean up Sawyer’s mess. I lift it up, bring it to my nose for a quick sniff. There’s no denying that fishy bleach smell, and I feel the same thing I did when I first found it, a surge of disgust and desire. And a relief, this time, that I hadn’t imagined it after all.

I step back, tossing the napkin back in and then letting the trash can lid close with a metallic clink. Outside, the wind surges, pushing autumn into the cabin. Dead leaves, a faint scent of old soil. I wash my hands and go back out to the porch, feeling numb.

So he cleaned it.

Sawyer Caldwell, the notorious Fat Camp Killer, slaughtered another person in my defense, brought me the head like a deranged cat, and then cleaned up the mess.

Because you asked him to . I had, hadn’t I? Last night comes to me in tatters, but I remember that much. Worrying about the head. The blood. And he’d taken it away.

I lean against the wooden banister, the peeling paint glossy against my palms. The forest rustles around me. The leaves haven’t started to turn yet, not really, but there’s a burnished quality to them. Like gilded pages in an old book.

He’s out there somewhere. Lurking in those trees. Sliding like smoke through the shadows. Watching me. The thought blooms in my head and then goes straight to my clit, which aches the way it had last night as Sawyer kissed me, touched me. Worshipped me.

I squeeze my thighs together, dizzy at the memory. Dizzy—and ashamed.

The wind blows. The trees sway, slow and lazy. And I wonder if he’s watching me now.