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“We’ll have to move again tonight,” I said. I reached across what felt like miles, my hand closing around Tristan’s. I held his gaze locked with mine, our hands over his chest, his heartbeat fluttering like a caged hummingbird. “I’m so sorry this is happening, Trist. But I’m going to get us through to the other side.”
He sucked in a breath. It had a rattle to it, like he was holding back tears.
This next part would hurt the worst, but it was needed. “And I think we should put things on pause between us, at least until I do.”
Tristan blinked a couple of times. His upper lip quaked momentarily before going stone stiff. The ice machine in the refrigerator whirled and roared.
I felt the need to elaborate. To explain that I wasn’t putting a stop to anything, just a pause. Just to keep my head clear.
He cut me off. “I get it,” he said, stepping back so that my hand fell from his. “And I think it’s the smart thing to do. You probably shouldn’t be getting attached to someone you’re likely to lose, anyway.”
“Tristan, that isn’t what I meant. I’m upset with myself for making stupid mistakes. I can’t have my head clouded with thoughts of kissing you while I’m charged with protecting you.”
He rubbed at the sides of his head. “I know, you’re right. I’m just—it’s a lot of stress. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t ever apologize for any of this.” I pointed toward the open archway leading out toward the living room, through a hall filled with potted plants. “Let’s go back to the group and let them know what we found.”
“Damn it, I hate how they’re putting themselves in danger because of me.”
“They’re just trying to help. They care about you.”
Tristan pushed off the island and turned away from me right as a glitter of a tear slid down his cheek. He walked away from me, shoulders slumped, the weight of his situation pushing down on him harder than gravity. I followed behind him, walking past a row of lush green ferns set inside cracked stone pots.
All eyes turned to us when we reentered the living room.
“We’ve got to go,” Tristan said. He raised the cut pieces of the card. “The fucker’s been tracking me.”
“Jesus,” Noah whispered. Jess dropped her face into her hands. Colton hissed. Eric got up and went for the card.
“So this is how he knew where you were,” Eric said. He looked at the broken pieces of the card as if they held all the answers.
Tristan nodded. “I feel so fucking… invaded. This person has basically been watching me this entire time. Who knows if they could even hear me through there.”
It was an unsettling thought. Pinpricks formed at the base of my neck, like someone had their eyes pinned to my back. I knew it was nothing, but I still glanced over my shoulder at the empty hallway we had just walked through.
Nothing. No one.
“Where are you guys going to go?” Jake asked.
“I’d rather not say that out loud,” I said.
“Right, duh.” Jake bit his nails. Anxiety was clear on all their faces. Tia looked like she was ready to bolt, keys already in hand and nervous looks thrown toward the front door. It was my cue. I had to get Tristan to safety and let everyone else find comfort in their homes, where they’d no doubt lock their doors and windows with extra care tonight.
I stepped forward, looking at the gathered group of fearful friends. “Alright, I want us to leave here in a staggered pattern. Jake and Noah will go first, then Tia and Jess, then Eric and Colton. Take the long routes home, and always keep an eye on your rearview. If you even have athoughtthat you’re being followed, then stop where you’re going and stay at the nearest hotel.”
The group stood, the silence in the room only working to heighten the anxiety. No one quite knew what to say. No one really understood how to handle this. A serial killer stalking one of their own. How could anyone cope with that kind of reality?
Tristan and I were the last to leave. I looked back at the massive glass-and-stone mansion that had served as our brief hideout, tall green trees highlighted by moonlight smothering it. The drive was silent. Tristan didn’t even ask where we were going, only speaking when I pulled into the brick driveway.
“Where are we?” he asked, looking out at the modest one-floor farmhouse.
“Home,” I said, hitting a button on my car’s dash and opening the garage door.
11
TRISTAN HALL
“Home,”Gabriel said as the garage door loudly rose to reveal a very well-organized space big enough to fit one car and a few bikes. I’d been so lost in my thoughts I hadn’t really focused onwhereGabriel had been taking us, so I was slightly surprised to see that we were at his house.
