Page 4 of Bird on a Blade (Hunter’s Heart #1)

CHAPTER THREE

EDIE

A ltarida has barely changed in fifteen years. When the hiking trail spits me out of the woods and into the little weed-choked back lot behind the Altarida General Store, I have a weird, dizzying moment where I feel like I’m eighteen again, in those weeks before the murders. Before Sawyer Caldwell became the first pivot in my life, that clear demarcation of Before and After.

Four deep breaths. I suck them down, eyes closed. God, Altarida even smells the same, like barbecue smoke and diesel and forest mulch.

The breathing helps. I’m not eighteen. I’m thirty-three. I’m an adult woman, even if my life is currently in shambles.

I stride across the courtyard, happy to be off the hiking trail. It was a nice walk, but I still couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching me from the trees. Charlotte would tell me it’s a sign that I shouldn’t be here, back in this place. She wanted me to go to New York, said she had some friends there who could take me in—but I was afraid that would be too easy for Scott to find. He’ll hire the best PIs he can to track me down. Not because he cares about me, but because it embarrasses him, me leaving. I haven’t even thought about how I’m going to file for divorce. Maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll just stay here, buy a house as Hayley Lace, and live out my days in Altarida.

That , I think, is the real reason I feel like someone’s watching me. Even now, I can feel it, as I step out of the courtyard and onto Main Street. Because even with all the steps I took to hide my tracks—fake names, buying a new car in cash and driving here cross-country instead of flying, never touching my credit card and bank accounts again except for the secret one Scott has no way of knowing about—I’m still afraid he’s going to find me.

Find me. Beat me. Choke me. Drag me back to our mansion by the Pacific and lock the fucking food cabinets so I can’t continue my recovery.

All so he doesn’t get embarrassed.

The old anger flushes hot in my face. It’s not even anger at him. It’s anger at myself, for being taken in by him five years ago, all those pretty promises he made while his bashful nerdy tech guy persona hid the reality of a psychopath.

Hell, at least Sawyer Caldwell didn’t pretend to be anything he wasn’t. According to the police, he’d been living in an old farmhouse at the top of the mountain full of human remains. There’s a red flag who doesn’t try to patchwork over it with green.

I pull my sunglasses on now that I’m on Main Street and tug up my collar—not there’s really anyone here to see me. No one comes up to the mountains in September. Too early for the fall leaves; too late for summer camping. Still, the stores are open. I duck into Altarida General, breathing in the scent of nostalgia. It looks like I remembered, sunny and dusty. The rows of soup cans and packages of gravy and boxed mac-and-cheese always look faded here, even though they’re the same at any grocery store.

The produce section also leaves a lot to be desired. Some limp celery and carrots, a few bags of salad mix. Two years ago I would have clucked my tongue over it even though it could have been a full-on farmer’s market of bounty and I’d still have only bought the celery to squeeze into juice.

I grab a bag of salad and pick up some dressing to go with it without even hesitating. In fact, I’m over in the canned goods aisle when I realize what I did, and my chest gets warm and I remind myself to text Charlotte to tell her that I still haven’t relapsed. It was tough on the road, too easy to just skip meals instead of stopping at some gas station McDonald’s. I’d start to feel that lightness in my thoughts, hazy and seductive. But Charlotte, bless her, texted me at meal times, chiding me to eat. I listened, most of the time.

Here, though, it doesn’t feel so hard. I buy some nuts and sharp cheddar cheese and canned lentil soup to go with the salad. Instant oatmeal for breakfast. I’ll have to drive to a real grocery store tomorrow.

“So what brings you to Altarida?” the cashier asks as he keys in each of the items.

I feel a moment of pure panic before I remember the story Charlotte suggested: “I’m an artist,” I say, which is not true of me but is true of her. “I needed to get away for a while to work on my art.”

The cashier smirks a little. “Staying at the old campgrounds?”

I sigh. “It was the only rental I could find around here.”

“Hey, I ain’t judging. It’s a nice property. Just a shame about what happened is all.” The register rings, and he gives me my total. I pay him. Cash.

“You should check out the bookstore,” he tells me as I shove the food into my backpack. “Just opened up. It’s artsy, you know.”

A bookstore? Altarida’s coming up in the world. “Where is it?”

“Two blocks down.”

I thank him and step out of Altarida General and consider my options. There’s no real reason for me to go back to the cabin just yet. It’s not so hot that my food’ll spoil. So I decide to check out the bookstore. Clear my thoughts. Ground myself here, in Virginia, instead of letting my mind fly back to California and Scott and the night I left.

The breeze toys with my hair as I walk down the street, my backpack heavy on my shoulders. Everything’s quiet and still, the street empty, but I still feel like someone’s watching me. More than once I glance over my shoulder, the street dim behind my sunglasses, and expect to see some out-of-place man down the block and across the street. Any PI Scott hires won’t ever really fit in here in Altarida; he’ll have a slickness about him, a glossiness. He’ll be too used to dealing with the ultra-wealthy.

But every time I turn around, there’s no one, ill-suited or otherwise.

Still, I quicken my pace, muscles tight. My footsteps click against the sidewalk and I strain, listening for an echo, but there’s nothing. Just a sense of unease, a prickling on the back of my neck like someone’s watching me.

Maybe Charlotte’s right. Maybe it is Altarida.

It’s a relief when I get to the bookstore, the storefront window painted in pretty, swirling font: Sweet Tidings Bookshop . It’s not just a bookstore; it’s a bakery, too, with a big cartoon cupcake emblazoned across the glass.

My chest tightens, seeing that. But only a little.

I duck inside, bell chiming overhead. The cashier looks up and smiles; she looks like a college student, oversized glasses and a streak of pink in her hair. “Welcome to Sweet Tidings!” she calls out by rote. I smile at her as I move deeper into the store. It’s split in half; books on one side, cupcakes on the other. I can smell them, the butter and sugar, and it makes the back of my jaw ache even as my chest squeezes tighter. A cold, raspy voice in the back of my head calculates calories and carbs, and I think of Charlotte and the weekly milk tea dates we started a year ago, and all the progress I’ve made.

I’m two years into recovery. I will not be frightened by a cupcake .

Still, I stick to the bookstore side, at least at first. Hardly anyone’s in here. An old grey-haired woman browses through the romance section. The door chimes, and a man about my age comes in and immediately starts flipping through the latest #1 bestseller. He’s the sort of man I remember always seeing in Altarida when I was younger: thin but wiry, a tangle of tousled dark hair, faint stubble across his jawline. He looks like he works with his hands for a living, which I’ll admit appeals to me, after Scott and his lush corner office and his artificially-crafted muscles.

The man glances up at me and I jerk my gaze away, cheeks blooming. Had I seriously been staring at him like a schoolgirl with a crush? I’m not even in the headspace to deal with men right now.

Embarrassed, I duck out of the bookstore portion and into the bakery. The lights are brighter here, like I’m stepping onto a stage. The bakery shelves are lined with decadent, frothy cupcakes that hardly look like food. There are two men in here, too, standing with their arms crossed as the girl behind the counter drops cupcakes into a white box.

I walk up to the counter and study the cupcakes on display. Monthly Special! reads a delicate hand-painted sign. Sweet Apple Cardamom with House-Made Carmel Syrup! The cupcake itself looks like a dream, like the golden sunlight that cracks across a late autumn afternoon. I desperately want to buy one, but the voice is still there in my head: You can’t eat that, you disgusting fatty, what’s wrong with you? We’re talking 1500 calories minimum. You should be sticking to 500 calories for a single DAY I mean look at you, you disgusting fucking pig. Look how fucking fat you’ve gotten. Look how ? —

A snicker echoes across the bakery. I freeze up, glancing over at the men, who are smirking at me. There’s a mirror behind them and I see myself, four sizes bigger than I’d been at the height of my anorexia and still a monstrous size 8 .

One of the men snickers again, mutters something to his friend. Both of them keep looking at me.

I swear I hear the word huge .

I whirl around, my face burning. Bestseller Guy is a few paces behind me, and he jerks his gaze away too, like he’s in on the joke. I feel like a fool for finding him attractive, for finding any man attractive. And suddenly I’m a teenager again, lying exhausted on my belly in the middle of a muddy patch at Head Start, sobbing while Blake or Michelle or one of the other asshole counselors screams at me to get up and fucking move .

I bolt out of the bookstore, grateful I’m wearing sunglasses so no one in this shitty town can see the tears streaming down my cheeks.