Page 33 of Guarded Knight (Echo Valley #3)

I wonder if Gabriel and Anton told this Arthur guy what’s happening in his cabin tonight.

It’s a quaint artist’s retreat in the middle of the woods behind my apartment, not too far down the trail where Gabriel and I had our first talk in Echo Valley. Hell, our first chat in years.

When I walked up into the wooden hut, it was almost something out of a fairy tale better suited to a forest in England than California. It has a small porch, and windows all around, which I suppose normally offers natural light for his projects.

But there’s no light now, not outside anyway. I’ve lit the woodstove and poured myself some tea from a Thermos Gabriel made me, helping myself to one of the several funky mugs that sit upside down on a shelf. Who still uses a Thermos? Old men and ex-military, that’s who.

It should feel cozy. Charming, even.

But tonight, it’s a hunting blind. And I’m the lure.

I sit on an old leather armchair. It squeaks when I shift, as if even the furniture is holding its breath.

I can’t imagine Arthur painting here, not with this weight in the air.

Not with this kind of silence. One of the three easels has an unfinished painting on it, and I can’t tell if it’s meant to be a lit candle or a vagina.

I probably just have a dirty mind.

Maybe this Arthur does, too.

I like him already, and a wave of guilt goes through me yet again. I bet this is a sanctuary to this Arthur. I feel guilty inviting a demon into this man’s heaven.

With my knees drawn to my chest, blanket tucked around me like armor, the fire in the stove stutters and is on its way to dying out. I attempt to focus on my work again, diving into this conundrum that is Belinda Doyle.

I hope to hell it’s all wrong, the part about Kevin anyway, though I know it’s not. He’s way too smart not to do due diligence. I can’t see a man like him neglecting the most basic thing. Hell, even I investigate the big donations I win to make sure the money trail is legit.

And it’s more than the money.

The Range Rover? Do Belinda and Kevin know each other personally?

Are they even… romantically connected? Now my work takes me into the seedier realm.

Socials, searching for old images of them together online.

Maybe I should mention this to Rio and he could use their software that can nab crooks. At least that’s what I think he does.

I tap again and go farther down the pecking order in socials from current platforms right back to OneSpace, the grandfather of social media.

And there, on my search, is the name Belinda Doyle.

I click. And gasp. Right there, in her profile photo from 2007, is a young Belinda with a beaming smile and a man’s arm draped around her.

Kevin.

My God. These two go way back? I squint, examining the image closely, trying to assess if the arm drape is romantic and sexual or platonic.

The hell? Are these two involved? They’ve known each other for years, so at the very least, there is no way Kevin wouldn’t understand what Belinda is doing. Right?

I swear, if Kevin is messing with Freya just to have a poster child for his fraudulent charity, I will have his ass. She’s been so loyal. So devoted to this cause. The thought of her being used, of her romantically involved with a man who sees her as a prop, makes me physically ill.

I glance back at the screen. Belinda and Kevin are awfully comfy together.

Maybe this is why he barely spends any time with Freya apart from on the phone and at functions?

If I really think about their timeline, Kevin started flirting with Freya at work, and then he took her on a couple of dates.

They kissed, but after that? The last few weeks have been pretty barren for those two.

Is he keeping her sweet?

I will bury this man if he has done that to my friend.

I press my palms into my eyes. I have to be wrong. But the dread in my stomach suddenly grows and shifts shape. It creeps into my chest and lingers behind my ribs like smoke.

Thinking about death, even as a metaphor, has me uneasy again. Since the last bit of sun left the sky, I haven’t been comfortable. There are a lot of windows. No curtains. Nothing but pitch-black outside. And not even enough light to see the shadows move.

The wood cracks in the fireplace, and I jump.

Just air.

Come on, Lara. G is out there. Anton, too. And apparently, at least a couple of police officers to take Cameron in if he comes.

And he will come.

I flip my cell over on the arm of the chair and read his latest plea.

CAMERON

I JUST WANT TO TALK. TO EXPLAIN MYSELF.

I want it to be over. My palms are slick. My stomach won’t stop flipping, but this is what I signed up for. I said I could handle it. But now that the sky is dark and the fire is dying and I’m the only heartbeat in this cabin, I’m not so sure.

I try to remember the Cameron I thought was a half-decent guy. The one I thought was a bit of an entitled frat boy but not capable of this much harm.

I place my laptop down on the floor next to me when a sudden knuckle tap on glass splits the silence.

My whole body jolts, and though I’m afraid to spin, I do as a reflex. There, against the windowpane are his eyes sheltered by curved palms, peering right at me.

Cameron.

My blood turns to ice.

He knocks harder. Louder this time.

“Lara!” he calls. His voice is muffled but unmistakable. “I just want to talk.”

I force myself to stay seated. Stay still. He has to walk in here uninvited. That’s the law for trespassing.

I questioned Gabriel about it more than once, and he reassured me that, in California, simply walking through that door can get Cameron six months.

He talks through the window, but I keep my back to him.

“I know you probably don’t want to see me,” he pleads. “I know things got weird but I never stopped caring about you. I just want a chance to explain.”

His voice is too smooth. Too measured. Like he’s rehearsed this in the mirror a hundred times. There’s no rage. No sadness. Just that awful, syrupy calm some men use before they snap.

He leaves the window.

There’s a long, awful pause.

I hold my breath, straining to hear something, anything. The crunch of gravel. The rustle of trees. Even wind through the eaves would be better than the eerie silence wrapped around me like a suffocating shroud.

I hear nothing.

No retreat. No footsteps. Just… absence.

Like he dissolved into the night.

Or like he’s still out there.

Watching.

Closer than I think.

I tighten my fingers around the armrest. I count to five. Then ten. My heart’s thudding, trying to escape my chest so it can get the hell out of this cabin.

Where is he?

The snap of a branch outside makes me flinch so hard my teeth click. I slap a hand over my mouth, as if silence might protect me now. As if stillness could make me invisible.

Then, a knock at the door.

I wait. Wait for footsteps that don’t come. For breathing. For a voice. But all I hear is a throbbing whoosh in my ears.

The silence is a soundless scream.

The doorknob rattles, and I jump again, holding the arms of the chair like I’m on a roller coaster and I can’t wait to get off.

I watch the doorknob as if through a telescope and it’s the only thing in my view.

It turns slowly, and the sound scrapes across my spine. Then the door groans on its hinges like something out of a nightmare.

It isn’t locked. It doesn’t have to be for him to be trespassing, and as Gabriel said, if the hunter didn’t make it easy for prey to get in the trap, they wouldn’t catch anything.

I freeze. The breath turns to stone in my throat. The door inches open another fraction. Then another. My body won’t respond. It’s like I’m watching from somewhere outside myself, too detached to run, too afraid to even flinch. This isn’t adrenaline. This is dread. Heavy. Paralyzing.

I have to remember this isn’t a cabin anymore. It’s a stage. And Gabriel, masked and waiting in the wings, is the one pulling the strings.

A rush of air sweeps in from the crack in the door. Cold. Damp. Sharp with pine and something metallic… like blood.

I don’t blink. I don’t even breathe. There’s no point. Behind me there is no exit, no way out.

For one terrible, splintering second, I wonder if Gabriel’s too late. If I’m alone. If I’m about to be swallowed whole.

Then Cameron finally appears in the doorway.

His eyes land on me. Wide and wild.

“You’re here.” He steps into the room. “All I want is closure…” He takes one more step, then two, closing the space between us. “…and to tell you that…”

Suddenly, out of nowhere, Gabriel explodes from the shadows.

Camouflage. Balaclava. A weaponized ghost.

Gabriel’s hand slams over Cameron’s mouth. He yanks him backward so hard his feet lift off the floor. He’s dragged farther into the cabin and pinned against the wall so fast, he barely manages a grunt. Gabriel slams the door shut behind them. One smooth motion, efficient and brutal.

Cameron lets out a blindsided cry when Gabriel twists his arm, locking it behind his back.

Anton’s through the door a second later, gun drawn.

I’m still frozen in the chair as Gabriel zip-ties Cameron’s wrists and forces him to the floor.

He pats him down. “Don’t move.” Gabriel’s tone is lethal.

I gasp. My hand flies to my mouth, trembling now, but not with fear. With relief so violent it makes me dizzy.

Gabriel turns. Pulls off the mask. His eyes find mine.

He crosses the room in two strides. Drops to one knee in front of me.

“You okay?”

I nod. “Yes. I mean… he didn’t do anything…” My own words hit me as if they’ve come from as far away as an alternate universe let alone my own body.

“He didn’t try to hurt me…” I reassure Gabriel because he looks like he’s about to burn the world down and throw Cameron into the flames.

I glance over. Cameron is white as a sheet.