Page 114 of On Edge

I trace my finger over it, feeling the cold air seeping through. Mentally, I addfind the pantry door keyto my list of investigative tasks, as well ascheck for prison scars, andlocate Sweeney.”

Then I remember the key I saw in the barn, hanging around Troy’s neck. I didn’t think anything of it then because I was too busy staring at his…

“Sage, do you need help in there?”

Blinking, I look around. Right, I’m supposed to be putting groceries away. “No, all good.”

I have to stop zoning out. But I can’t see anywhere to put the frozen food until I open a fridge standing upright next to the shelves and see the drawers of frozen food at the bottom.

Quickly, I start shoving the items where they belong. I’m not really thinking. I don’t even care where things go; I just throw them in. And then I hurry back into the kitchen.

I try to carry on baking, but I can’t even focus. I’m too distracted. Flour goes everywhere, and I keep dropping things on the floor. After a couple of minutes, Kathy exhales loudly. “You need to take a break, Sage.”

“I think you’re right.” I give her an easy smile and then hurry back to my room, because I need to write this all down before I forget.

After I’ve scribbled it in my notes and shoved the book under my mattress, and after I’ve splashed cold water on my face, I feel so much better. I calmly take out a blister pack of my migraine pills and shove them in my cardigan, then I put on more lip gloss, don’t ask me why. Maybe I need a sugar hit, or perhaps the thick, glossy coating on my lips feels like a barrier between me and a certain someone else.

When I get back to the kitchen, it’s dark, and Kathy is nowhere to be seen. But I still haven’t finished, so I continue with the cakes and tarts.

I didn’t lie before when I said that baking calmed me. I don’t know why, it just does. There’s something therapeutic about making buttercream, whipping it in a bowl so hard my arms ache. Although I much prefer making pastry. I love the firmness of dough under my hands, and then the outlet of slamming it onto the table, smashing it with the rolling pin, and then?—

“What the hell are you doing?” comes a stern voice, smooth as whiskey, melting my insides within a moment’s notice.

I drop the rolling pin, and it clatters to the floor.

In the doorway, the bane of my existence, the one person I can’t stop thinking about, who is probably the Demon of Port Penn and who surely killed Nell.

Troy.

He’s changed. He’s no longer in the clothes he arrived in. He’s wearing something a bit more casual, like dark jeans and a cashmere sweater. His hair is a little damp from a shower, and his eyes are piercing.

Oh, those eyes.

I note he’s carrying a glass when he walks in. Then my eyes slip to his neck. The key. He must be wearing it.

“Just making…um…pastry,” I say. “For the tarts.”

“You mean torturing it to death.” He stalks in and looks around. “Who let you loose in the kitchen?”

Indeed, the kitchen looks like a tornado hit it. Flour everywhere. Buttercream icing stuck to my face, sticky between my fingers.

I don’t really know what to say to him. I’m very mixed up when it comes to my feelings. I hate him, and yet…

In my bra is a foil of powdered pills. I crushed them earlier, and now all I need to do is sprinkle some in his wine.

I stare at his glass again.

Troy frowns and comes over to where I’m working, placing his wine right on the counter next to me. “Are you all right?”

“What?”

“You seem a little... distracted. Are you okay?”

“Why do you care?”

His frown deepens. “I was just…” He shakes his head, running a hand through his wet hair, darker now that it’s damp. Then he sighs. “I’m worried this is all too much.”

Worried? Troy Severin is worried? Now I know I’m dreaming. This is not what I anticipated ever happening.