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“Thanks.”

I needed to heal my ribs. Find my attacker and put him behind bars.

And then I needed to get the hell out of here.

THE GHOST

There is an inch of flesh below the armpit, between ribs four and eight, where if a blade is pushed with care, the wound is likely survivable, with proper medical attention.

He did not exercise such care.

But I did.

She was glowing like a sunrise when I slid the knife between her ribs, the blade so sharp that her flesh yielded like butter. Another small mercy I granted her that had not been given to me. The ease of it surprised us both—for a moment, I worried I had gone too far, pushed too deep. Her face was still lit up with the joy of her work, hands gesturing animatedly, cheeks flushed, and eyes sparkling as she explained a concept in photography to a rapt student.

In that intimate pause, my blade in her body but her body not yet feeling the cut, I was as mesmerized as her students. Perhaps this was the secret to my invisibility. How could anyone notice me when all they saw was her? But then her brow pinched with pain, and I withdrew. By the time the shouting started, I was across the field.

Yellowstone had the benefit of an on-site emergency facility. Lila would go there first and then, if her wound was more severe than I anticipated, they would airlift her to the closest hospital. It was about an hour’s drive from the park, but no more than fifteen minutes by helicopter.

I had been meticulous in the harm I had meted out. Only what she deserved and no more—to the extent it was in my power, that is. Bodies were such complicated things. But no one could accuse me of malice.

I wasn’t him.

But I was what he made me.

My stride was purposeful but not hurried as I headed for the visitor’s center. Too slow, and someone might think I was lost and offer help. Too fast might raise suspicion. That was the real secret to my invisibility: People only saw what they were looking for.

All I had to do was make sure they weren’t looking for me.

The visitor’s center was the ideal place to overhear gossip because everyone in the park came through here eventually. I browsed the trail maps while I waited for news. It wasn’t every day that a pretty young lady was stabbed in broad daylight in a national park. Sooner or later, the talk would make its way to the front desk.

Twenty minutes later, a short ranger with large breasts and a bouncy blonde ponytail burst through the doors. “Did you hear? Someone was stabbed in the photography workshop. A woman.”

“Shit.” The grandfatherly man behind the desk looked both concerned and excited. “Is she all right?”

“She’s alive, but they’re gonna have to airlift her to the hospital.”

“What happened?”

“No one knows. They’re calling in ISB.”

“What’s ISB?” A dad holding his daughter’s hand entered the conversation, asking the question I couldn’t. Next to him was his horrified wife holding their son, her hand over his ear as she pushed his face against her chest like she was trying to shield him from hearing anything too gruesome.

The blonde ranger straightened. She liked having the answers; I could tell. “The Investigative Services Branch. They’re like the police of the National Park Service.”

“Are we safe?” the woman asked, looking scared.

Her answer didn’t concern me. I quietly slipped out the doors and made for my car. It was time to plan my next move.

Justice would be served. An eye for an eye—that was the rule. Her cheek for my cheek. Her rib for my rib.

Her life for my life.

9

SEB

Blood. So much blood. I toss aside an arm. A leg. Another arm.