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What I didn’t understand was why there was a piece of me that didn’t want her to know. I didn’t want her to look at me with disgust and fear.
I slammed my fist into the tiled wall. Damn it, she needed to leave. Get as far away from me as she could.
I shut off the tap and stepped out of the shower. I toweled off and tugged on the T-shirt and joggers, then walked out of the bathroom. I stopped for a second to peer out the window at the cabin again. I snorted, shaking my head at the lights blazing from every room. I’d have to replace those flimsy-ass curtains, she was announcing her every movement, and that was dangerous.
What the hell was I thinking? She’d be gone in one-hundred-and-forty-four hours.
I picked up my gun and shoved it back under the pillow before grabbing my knife off the wooden crate I used for a nightstand. I strapped it to my calf beneath my pant leg and straightened. My gaze flicked to the window again in time to see the light in her bedroom turn off. She’d gone to bed but left on the lights in the kitchen and living room. I’d always preferred the darkness, probably because I’d spent my childhood hiding in dark spaces. The darkness had been my friend. It was where I could breathe without pain or fear. Now it was more of a matter of survival.
Goose bumps prickled the back of my neck, and a cold shiver went through me. I needed to run. Running and hunting psychos were the only things that stamped out the nightmares, at least temporarily.
I jogged down the stairs and walked outside into the darkness.
Then I ran.
It was a good ten or eleven miles before exhaustion finally suffocated the images and emotions. I slowed to a light jog and made my way back through the woods toward the house.
As I drew closer, I heard the light ping of what sounded like guitar strings from across the river floating on the summer breeze.
I picked up the pace again and silently moved through the woods until I reached the clearing near the cabin.
That’s when I saw her. It was as if the ground shifted on an axis beneath my feet, and I reached out, placing my hand on the tree for balance.
Macayla sat on the top step of the porch with her head dipped and the guitar across her lap. Her hair was piled in a messy twist on top of her head with pieces sticking out in every direction. A few strands had escaped in the front and hung in soft waves to curtain her face.
She wore army-green pants with a white V-neck tank top, and there was a sweatshirt tied at her waist.
My fingers dug into the bark as I watched her. I knew I should walk away. Fuck, I needed to walk away.
But I didn’t, and instead I shifted to lean against the tree, crossing my arms over my chest.
She fiddled with the chords, repeating the same melody numerous times with slight changes. Then she stopped, shifted the guitar to the side, and leaned to the right.
That’s when I noticed the notebook and pen sitting on the porch. She picked up the pen and scratched something out on the page before writing something else.
She was a songwriter? Was that what had been on the napkins? Were they love songs? Did she write about whoever she’d left behind? Was she writing that she missed him?
She settled the guitar on her lap again, and her lips parted.
I held my breath. Watching. Waiting.
Her fingers began to float across the strings as if they were the wings of a firefly. It was effortless. Graceful. Almost shy, and yet at the same time, confident.
The melody was hypnotizing, the softness flirting with danger, and the tension building only to flutter to a light ping again.
I stared, unable to move as she played. My heart thumping to the rhythm.
She briefly paused, and I could see her lips moving as if she was counting. One. Two. Three.
Then her fingers danced lightly over the strings again, but this time I heard her lyrical tone as she hummed the melody. She fumbled a few times and then stopped, inhaled a deep breath, and closed her eyes.
What happened next was magical.
She sang. It was barely a whisper, and I had to strain to hear her, but it was as if each word she sang was a heartbeat, and every chord she strummed a breath of fresh air.
It was beautiful. She was fuckin’ beautiful.
I’d already known that. But now, seeing her play and hearing her whispered words just etched the scars deeper so they were carved into my bones.
