My Heart For Yours (Sinful Secrets 2)

The first time I saw something funny in the footage was two weeks ago, Cam 2, at 4:45 a.m. The blur looked man-sized. I could have sworn I saw an arm swinging, the shadow of an arm, with the rest of the body behind a tree. But it was too dark, and the image therefore too grainy, to say for sure.

Then last week, last Wednesday I believe it was, I was following Aimee from Cam 4’s view to Cam 3’s, trying to be sure he didn’t try to bash his new tracker anklet against that freaking rock like last time, when I saw it again: a funny blurriness on the screen, right up against the bottom of a pine tree trunk. The cameras film in color, but not infrared, so all I could manage to identify was a smudge.

I froze the frames, getting down into the milliseconds, looking for the subtle differences between the frames—and there were subtle differences. As if someone was moving: a semi-invisible form, moving between two trees. But it was dusk. Again, I couldn’t quite be sure.

And then today—right about the time I finished kicking some punching bag ass in the clearing and started heading down the hill behind my cabin, which is situated at one corner of the 300-acre Bear Inc. enclosure, I heard this weird noise. It sounded like two people wrestling in the leaves.

I booked it home and reviewed the footage from Cams 1 and 2, the ones closest to where I was walking. And I found this. This—person. I swear it is! A person in some kind of top-notch camo—or a ghost. I can only see the back and maybe a bent head, but it totally looks like a person.

…A person-like blur.

Would I swear on it in court?

Well, no.

Can I be one-hundred percent sure where the person’s outline ends and the thick woods begin again? Not exactly. But it seems like something. Seriously it does.

And if it is something, I need to know. If it’s someone, I have to be cautious. With all the ruckus going on around here lately, it could be anything. Maybe evil Haywood has some asshole spying on me. Maybe there’s a serial killer in the area, one who gets off on victimizing girls with disabilities. The likelihood he would have an invisibility cloak seems slim, but you never know. It could be really good camouflage. They make some patterns that blend in really well with the woods inside the Smoky Mountain National Forest. My property backs right up to it.

I tilt my head to the side, as if that will help my eyes focus. Then I let out a long sigh, rewind and view the footage one last time, and click the red button on the upper left-hand corner of my Safari window.

The computer’s clock says it’s 5:15 p.m., which means I need to get moving.

I let out my version of a bear moan. Living alone, I’m free to be as dramatic as I want on any given day. With no pets or people, just me here in the forest and the bears—various distances away from me, in the enclosure behind the cabin—it’s not like my shouting, cursing, singing, dancing, or moaning is going to upset anyone. The house next door is empty. That evil bastard Haywood.

I’ve still got to get a shower, but first…

I hustle from my office into the living room, then through the half-wall opening between den to kitchen. There, inside the cabinet underneath my big, trough-style sink, I keep a bottle of Emile Pernot “Vieux Pontarlier” Absinthe for just such an occasion as this.

I twist the top off, bring the bottle to my lips, and take the smallest of swigs. The warm, licorice taste coats my throat, leaving behind a tang of bitterness as I shut my mouth. I imagine I feel more relaxed as I put the bottle back under the sink.

Absinthe aficionados would be horrified by my bastardization of their fancy drink, but whatever. Again—no one here but me.

I strip out of my workout clothes as I march toward my bedroom, set my iPhone in the Bose sound system on my dresser, grab the remote, and blast some Florence + The Machine as I quickly scrub my body, wash my hair, and dry it, tilting my head upside down and flinging my long, copper locks around like a ’70s rock star. I swipe deodorant underneath my underarms twice, because I know I’ll sweat tonight, then apply a faintly blue eyeliner that makes my brown eyes pop, followed by my signature red lipstick. I don’t care what anybody says about redheads and the

color red. It’s bullshit. I can rock the red.

My phone starts playing witchy-sounding music—the theme song from the Harry Potter movies—as I shimmy into hunter green leggings, but I can’t talk to my bestie Jamie and get ready, so I decide I’ll call her from the car. After a parting eyebrow arch into the mirror, I drift into my room and spend a second staring longingly at a an oversized gray hoodie picturing the cover of one of my favorite books, My Antonia, before tossing it aside and grabbing a boring, cream sweater that hits me about mid-thigh. I have these ridiculously awesome Prada combat boots that would breathe some life into this bleh, but I don’t want to draw that kind of attention tonight, so I settle on a pair of brown Tory Burch riding boots that would only look expensive to the most discerning eye.

I shake my head around a few more times, letting my armpit-length auburn waves cascade around my face, before I fasten my hair into a casual French braid. Then I grab my backpack purse, my adorable bear keychain, and my phone out of the Bose dock, and sprint toward the garage door: a trek that takes me through the office that adjoins my room, then the den—where the cabin’s front door is—through the kitchen, and into the laundry room beside the breakfast nook. The place reeks of gardenias, which are potted and blooming on every spare surface, including the top of the washing machine. I inhale deeply as I slip out the door and into my garage.

The radio in my Mini Cooper (code-named Anderson) is set to NPR, and after deliberation that lasts about the length of my long, twisty driveway, I decide leave it there, distracting myself with an interesting discussion about transgender elementary schoolers before, about two miles from my destination, I call Jamie.

“Are you thereeee?” she asks, in lieu of a normal greeting.

“Not yet.” I sigh.

“Are you ready?” she asks. “Are you still going to do it?” She sounds perhaps skeptical. I can’t tell for sure. She’s got this thing she does where even I can’t read her intonation. Tricky whore.

I sigh again. “I guess maybe. Probably,” I modify.

“You can do this.”

I sink my nails into the leather of the steering wheel and glare out at the traffic.

“It might help,” she says.

“Might.” I attack the stitching on the wheel’s side with one dark purple fingernail and make a turn toward the courthouse.