in case of being snowed in. A case of wine. Whisky I’d gotten from Deacon, before I accused him of being a murderer, which was lucky. Toilet paper. Expensive face creams and makeup that arrived from New York just yesterday. I had Emily’s books.
Food, but not that I’d bought. Margot had stocked the previously empty pantry with things I would not touch in a thousand years. Or until I got snowed in and hungry enough.
Or if I lost the will to live from not writing and gave up on everything else.
I should’ve been wearing more clothes, I knew that. Especially considering my history. A pair of jeans and boots that were made for the runway to look like you could walk in the wilderness but were not at all suited to the actual wilderness. A lace bra that cost almost as much as the boots. Thin, cashmere sweater, buttery leather jacket.
I had been told many times by Margot and Deacon that I was being ridiculous wearing things like this. And I had told them I’d die before I put on fleece and a puffed jacket.
Which was not out of the question as my bones began to freeze and visible plumes of air puffed from my mouth with every breath.
I’d been here for long enough I should be familiar with all of this. The dense trees. The wildlife. The lake that spanned across miles. My lake.
But I never really looked at it, really looked.
But now, crunching along the shore of the lake, I looked. It was something out of a fucking calendar. Everything was carved, crisp, untouched. I found myself wondering what Saint’s house looked like. A hovel nestled amongst dense wood. One room. A cot. An oven. A kennel of rabid dogs. Semi-automatic weapons everywhere.
Maybe even a couple of hostages in some basement.
He was a killer.
I knew that the second I got a look at him, even with my mind fractured and close to death.
Yes, he was a killer.
Lived close enough the victim.
He didn’t have a code against killing women. How I knew that, the devil only knew, but I did. If a woman came at him, with an intent to do something, he’d hit back. But I didn’t think he’d be the one to land the first blow, just to show you who was stronger, who was in charge. He didn’t need that.
Yes, he’d kill a woman. If he had to. But I didn’t know if he’d do it for sport, in the way these women were killed. Tortured. He was a cruel man, but not in that way.
Though, I could be wrong. I wasn’t the best judge of character.
“Walking out here in improper gear is just teasing the Devil,” a voice melted out of the woods.
I jumped, because I’d been totally lost in thought. Unguarded. Stupid.
When I turned, he was just standing there, watching me. He wore the right gear. A bulky jacket. Sweater underneath. Jeans. Boots that were really made for this place.
“Why? Because strange men are watching me?” I shot back.
He didn’t move. “Mayhaps. Or because the weather is closing in, you’re recovering from an ankle injury, and aren’t used to your surroundings. My guess is you’ve also been drinking and I doubt you’ve eaten much.”
I bit my tongue hard enough to draw blood. It was coppery and bitter.
I wanted to tell him he was wrong.
But he wasn’t.
That shamed me. For being so simple, so easy to figure out.
“My house is ten minutes away,” I snapped, injecting venom into my voice. I just realized I was mad at him. Hated him. He was the reason I wasn’t writing. His presence. His absence. Too full. Too empty.
“It’s fifteen minutes away from where I found you,” he returned, glancing around.
I didn’t do the same, despite the fact I had no idea this was almost the place we’d first met. When Saint chased away the reaper.
I clenched my fists. Or tried to. My fingers were numb, weak. Already, I’d let the cold creep in, weaken me, just like I was letting the man in front of me creep in.
“Why are you on my property?” I asked, instead of giving in to the petty need to argue with him. Shout at him.
Fuck him.
“As I said, weather’s closin’ in. Can’t say how long it’ll stay for, but you need wood stores. So you don’t freeze to death inside that cabin.”
The way he said it sounded more like a threat.
“I’m capable of chopping my own wood from now on,” I returned, making