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“Harlow?”
Judge Hollowell’s deep voice nearly makes me jump, and I finally wrench my gaze away from the dead animal and focus on him. His brows are drawn together, his round, handsome face creased with concern.
As I watch, he rises in a smooth movement, and it turns my blood to ice.
The man in the mask. The man in the dark car who slammed into Iris and then checked to make sure she was dead before speeding off into the night—he moved like that.
If I hadn’t seen the fox first, I might not have noticed it or might have brushed it off.
But I did see it. The fucking thing is still staring at me with its beady, dead eyes. And I know that this time, I’m not wrong.
Judge Hollowell killed Iris.
He strides toward me, his socked feet as silent as a predator’s on the polished hardwood floor. His brows are still drawn together and oh, fuck, does he know that I know?
“Harlow?” he asks again, his hazel eyes narrowing slightly. “Are you all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Fear claws up my throat with icy fingers.
The night he killed Iris, all I could see of this man’s face were his shadowed eyes and lips. Everything else was covered by a black ski mask.
For weeks—months—that masked face has haunted me, has infiltrated my dreams and turned them into nightmares.
The man standing before me now, still gazing at me with concern, has salt-and-pepper hair, laugh lines around his mouth, and a small dimple in his chin. His face is handsome, his expression warm and kind.
And it scares the fuck out of me.
Because that’s a mask too.
To Be Continued…
