She tries to nod again, but her movements are jerky and strained. She’s tired, and what clarity she held just a moment before is already fading. My mother never judged me. After I was brought home, when my world remained a dark dungeon, she didn’t look at me as broken. As someone who needed therapy and a problem to be fixed. She always told me we are who we’re meant to be.
That simpl
e. She remains my voice of reason.
And now she’s telling me my love is something to be feared.
No words could ever be truer.
With that, I part from my mother after a lingering hug, then lean her back in her rocking chair. As I give the nurse further instruction on my mother’s care—making sure no one other than me has access to her—and how to reach me should the department make that even more difficult, I glance back once more as she nods off to sleep, and dare anyone to try to hurt me by causing her harm.
Once I leave Resting Pines nursing home, feeling a bit of relief that my mother is safe, I hear a beep from my back pocket. I pull out my burner phone. A new message from Colton lights the screen.
Colton: When? Where? I’ll wait all night for you.
I suck in a full breath, tasting the hint of fall on my tongue, and a shiver races the length of my body. The crisp, fresh air rushes my senses, and then suddenly I’m engulfed in Colton’s masculine scent. A longing burns beneath my breastbone. Just seeing his name on the screen, reading his determined words, brings a rush to my head.
Playing with fire.
Maybe so, but I cannot turn away from the only person who offered me redemption with no dangling judgment. Until I have proof that he has any connection at all with the serial killings, I have to bend my own rules—I have to return his trust.
And it’s possible a darker part of me enjoys the hunt, the lure. Being close to the devil, poking the embers and watching them spark. It’s the fire that keeps me warm when the callous world would leave me drowning in the frigid, murky water.
I respond: My place at nine. Text before you come.
He replies right away: I won’t be late.
The skip of my heartbeat echos hollowly in my throat as I swallow. With sudden clarity, I realize that, sometimes, being close to the thing you fear is the only way to effect true living—to feel.
I slip my phone into my bag and drag out my keys, clicking the car alarm off. As I reach for the door handle, an eerie feeling brushes the back of my neck, causing the little hairs to lift away from my skin.
I never ignore this feeling; I’ve honed it to perfection, and it’s the one that has kept me ahead of the game. Turning slowly, I sweep the parking lot, and spot a lone, black car parked at the back. Tinted windows, but I can make out someone in the driver-seat. They’re watching me.
I start to reach for my phone to call Quinn, then stop. Instead, I shift to unclasp the leather strap over my gun and start for the car.
If the hunter wants to reveal himself and become the hunted, so be it. I was counting on more of a chase…but I’m as ready as ever.
The engine rumbles to life, and the tires peel against the asphalt as the car shoots forward. I’m running toward the black car as it suddenly changes direction and heads right for me. I pull my gun and aim.
Tension
UNSUB
What makes a great story?
It’s a question I’ve asked of all my pets time and again, and all I get in return is pathetic, whimpering nonsense. It’s possible I’m asking the wrong question—that I’m not being specific enough. Or that I haven’t done my utmost when it comes to selection.
My standards are just too high, you see. I’ve set the bar to her, and no one else will suffice. Though my evaluation process is thorough—I only vet the best—it still seems with my pets, I always come up lacking, wanting.
Obsession is a tricky, little bitch.
I’ve started to consider the likelihood that I don’t spend enough time with my girls. In order for them to truly meet their potential, they need a firm teacher. A nurturer and lover that can mold and shape their minds, as well as their physical form.
Oh, they need so much attention, my little beauties. Why not give them a fair chance to bloom into their full potential? Slow it down, stretch out the hours, build the tension.
After all, isn’t that what transforms a good story into a great one?
Tension.