Hanged (Savage Men 5)

“No, of course not, honey,” I say. For a second there, I wish I had. But then she’d probably hate me.

“I want him to be here too,” she says, putting all her effort into her pout.

“All right, I’ll take him out of your drawer,” I say, rolling my eyes as I fetch the stuffed animal.

“Yay!” she squeals, clapping her hands. She pulls away the sheets and pats the bed. “Mr. Puddlewuddle can sleep right here next to me.”

There’s a slight pang in my stomach, but I ignore it as I place the toy where she wants it. I don’t understand how she can get so attached to something she’s had for just a day. Then again, children often do when they feel like something’s missing.

I let out a sigh and kiss her again on the forehead this time as I tuck her in. “Sleep tight, honey.”

“Wait,” she says again as I’m about to leave. “What about the card that was in the mailbox?”

I pause, clenching the doorframe. My lungs feel constricted.

She knows. She saw it. A smile creeps onto my lips. Of course, she did.

I’d hoped I was good at hiding things, but apparently, I’m not.

“It was for me, wasn’t it?” she asks. I’m surprised she noticed. “Can I read it?”

“No,” I bark. I don’t know why I’m being so resolute. So mean. Maybe I’m jealous of her ability to see him as anything but dangerous.

“Sorry, honey,” I say, glancing over my shoulder, trying to be milder. “Maybe another time.”

“Tomorrow?” she asks as I’m about to close the door.

I close my eyes and let out a final sigh. “Maybe. Ask me again tomorrow.”

* * *

I lie awake in bed for hours.

This is how it always goes. How it’s been for years.

I don’t want to use the sleeping pills that I got from the doctor because then it feels like defeat, and I don’t like to give in to defeat. But they’re staring at me from my nightstand. If I don’t take them, I don’t get enough sleep. And being a cranky bitch to your child isn’t really all that either. So after a few more minutes of simmering in my own stew of self-hatred, I grab the bottle anyway.

Right as I open the bottle and throw two pills onto my hand, I hear some noise. I put the pills back and place the bottle down, then get out of bed. I quickly check on my baby girl to make sure she’s all right. That’s when I hear the noise again.

It’s metallic. Like someone’s messing with the door lock. And it’s coming from downstairs.

In my pajamas, I make my way downstairs, clutching the bannister. The noise gets louder and louder, so I hurry to the closet in the hallway and grab my shotgun. It’s the only protection I have, and boy am I glad I bought the damn thing.

I snatch the box with ammo from the shelf and open it with trembling hands, trying not to panic. I’ve only done this twice, but I manage to put the bullets in properly before I move closer to the door. The noise has stopped, and no one is messing with the front door, at least not that I can see. Did I imagine it? Or maybe it’s the shoddy door and just needs to be replaced. I mean, it is windy outside.

Still, I gotta make sure, so I turn the lock and push open the door. Shivering, I take a step outside and look around, holding the shotgun tight.

Suddenly, something moves in the corner of my eye, and I immediately point my shotgun at it.

“Who’s there? Show yourself!” I yell.

A figure steps out into the light that shines right underneath my porch.

There’s no mistaking it. The old leather jacket. The square, chiseled, scruffy jawline and penetrating eyes.

It’s him.

“Hello.”

His voice makes my skin tingle and not in just a good way—in an oh-my-God-I’m-losing-my-panties way. But I can’t let him get to me so easily.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

His hand opens up, showing me a key. So it was him trying to open the door. “You forgot this one. Better not try to hide keys under the windowsill.”

“I replaced the locks,” I hiss, burying my feet into the ground.

“No wonder it didn’t work,” he says. “Good.”

Why would he even say that?

And why do I immediately think of that dream I had?

“Tell me why you came,” I say with a bold voice, remembering my defiance.

He doesn’t respond. Instead, he takes another step, straight toward the gun.

“You don’t wanna shoot me,” he says.

God, I hate that he can see right through me.

“Answer me! Why are you here?” I growl, clenching the shotgun even tighter.

Before I know it, he’s grabbed the barrel and points it straight at his heart. “Go on then.”

In a panic, I freeze. My finger almost pulls the trigger, but no matter how much I wish I could, I can’t.