Page 65

3:45 AM

The rain roars in front of me, ready to wash my sin away.

On the small, rotting porch, the air carries a thick, metallic heat.

Warm, viscous blood coats my hand, sprays across my face, and drips down the front of my clothes, soaking through the fabric in rich, dark blooms as I tear through his flesh.

I stare down at the creature lying at my feet.

The wooden mask he wears tilts slightly to one side of his face, while blood trickles down his cheek, falling onto the porch where the rain quickly washes it away before it stains the wood.

The heavy shotgun rests uselessly on the wet floorboards, smeared in blood and mud.

Gripping the hilt of the heavy hunting knife that remains buried in the dead man’s chest, I pull the large blade free with a wet, sickening slide, twisting the metal with a raw, brutal efficiency that ended his life in seconds.

I let out a low, slow breath, my heart thumping a steady, intoxicating rhythm against my ribs as I revel in the sheer destruction I just caused.

The adrenaline tastes like copper on my tongue.

Then comes a small, ragged gasp.

I turn my head toward the doorway.

Harmony stands in the threshold, her light brown eyes wide as saucers, her skin drained of all color.

Blood—his blood—has sprayed across her cheeks, her neck, and the front of her wet sweater. She stares at the body, her hands trembling violently at her sides, trapped in a state of pure, paralyzed shock.

“What…” she chokes out, her voice barely a breath above the storm. “What have you done, Ryder?”

My gaze bears down on her, dark, steady, and unyielding.

I step toward her, my shadow swallowing her whole as I explain the reality of the situation in a calm, measured tone.

“I protected you, pretty girl.” I keep my voice smooth and utterly devoid of remorse. “The crazy bastard had a loaded shotgun pointed directly at my chest. If I hadn’t taken him down, what do you think he would’ve done to you the second he stepped inside that door?”

She doesn’t answer. She just stares at the red pool spreading across the porch, her chest heaving in short, frantic gasps.

Without breaking eye contact with Harmony, I grab a handful of the dead man’s mud-caked pants and wipe both sides of the steel clean, removing the heavy crimson liquid until the metal shines again.

I slide the knife back into its leather scabbard, hooking it onto my belt.

Then, I reach down, grab the man by his cold, heavy ankles, and drag his body down the rotting wooden steps and straight out into the pouring rain.

Harmony stumbles out to the edge of the porch, clutching her sweater to her chest as the wind tears at her wet hair.

“Where are you going? What are you doing with him?” Her panicked scream rips through the roar of the storm.

I don’t slow my pace.

“I'm going to dispose of the body,” I call back as if I were taking out the trash.

I haul the carcass through the thick mud, dragging it roughly fifty yards past the tree line to the jagged rock cliff at the very edge of the property.

Below, a roaring, rain-swollen river churns wildly against the rocks.

There isn’t a trace of guilt stirring inside me about what I just did.

It was simple math: he threatened Harmony, he threatened me, and I put him down. More importantly, I couldn’t risk the bastard surviving, walking out of these woods, and calling the cops to alert them to my location.