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“I already know what you’re going to say. That I misheard you. It’s the same old shit I’ve been hearing for years.”
“You did mishear me,” he said. “But I was speaking so softly, and there was a thunderstorm outside. So I guess that’s not your fault.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Paxton, I know what I heard.”
“No, you don’t. Because what I really said was, ‘You have to run, or he’ll kill you too’, after you asked if someone broke in. I didn’t say ‘I’ll’. It was ‘he’ll’. I swear.”
“He? Who’s he?” I said, voice dripping with disbelief. “You claimed to the police that you never actually saw the killer’s face. But somehow you knew it was a man?”
“Killers like that are usually men, so I made an assumption.” Paxton sighed and stroked his jaw. “I know what it looked like, Sienna. Trust me, this shit has haunted me for years. But it was never actually what it looked like. That night, I got up and went downstairs to get some water. I found Troy’s body on the floor. I tried to wake him up, and that’s how I ended up covered in blood. After that, I knew you were in danger. We all were. So I sent a text to 911 telling them a killer was in the house. Then I grabbed a knife and went upstairs to help you outside. But I was totally fucked from the adrenaline. I wasn’t thinking straight and I didn’t realize what I looked like. It wasn’t until you ran from me that I realized how much I’d scared you.”
“I’ve heard all of this before,” I muttered, shaking my head. “But it’s not like that’s the whole story. You chased me.”
“Yes. I did. But not to hurt you. I was fucking terrified for you, Sienna. I was trying to catch you so I could tell you to stay quiet and explain exactly what was going on. That’s all.” Paxton shook his head and stared at the wall. “I was so scared you’d run right into the killer’s arms, whoever he was, and end up dead. I’ve never been so scared in my fucking life.”
I pursed my lips. “Let’s just say, for argument’s sake, that I actually believe you said, ‘run or he’ll kill you too’. Why would you say that? It’s such a weird thing to say. Also, why wouldn’t you say ‘us’ instead of ‘you’? Weren’t you worried the killer was going to hurt you?”
Paxton gave me a hard look. “I said that because there was no ‘us’ in that scenario.”
“What?”
“I wasn’t going to go with you. I was going to help you get out so you could run up to the road, call the cops in case they didn’t get my 911 text, and wait for them to arrive. Once you were safely out, I was going to stay behind and see if there was anyone else still alive. Anyone else I could help.”
I looked back at him through narrowed eyes, wondering how many people actually believed that he was the selfless hero he painted himself as. Far too many, that was for sure.
Some sick, twisted part of me—the same part that melted into his embrace and turned me into a desperate, panting slut for him—actually wanted to believe him too. But how could I? His explanations couldn’t account for everything else I saw that evening in the lake house.
“What about the jersey, Paxton?” I said in a low voice.
“I told you why it was covered in blood. It was Troy’s blood from when I found him on the floor.”
I shook my head. “No. Not that. I saw it when you attacked me.”
“You were attacked from behind.”
My heart began to hammer in my chest as the dark memories poured in all over again. “I know,” I said. “But I still saw your jersey when I was on my stomach on the floor. Your arm shot out in front of me for a while. I smelled your cologne, and I saw your jersey number on the sleeve. Thirteen.”
“Tons of men wear sports jerseys, even if they don’t play anything,” Paxton said. “And it was pretty dark. Maybe it said another number and you were confused because you were looking at it upside down.”
“It wasn’t completely dark,” I said, shaking my head. “The fire was still going in the hearth in the living room. So there was a bit of light coming from that. And it wasn’t just the number. I saw the burn.”
Paxton cocked his head. “The burn?”
“Earlier that night, you burned your jersey sleeve in the bonfire when we were making s’mores. And then I saw it. It was right there in front of my eyes when I was being attacked. That exact same burn mark. That’s how I always knew for sure that it was you.”
He leapt to his feet. “Fuck. Fuck,” he muttered, raking his fingers through his hair. “I get it now.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You really don’t remember, do you?” he said, shaking his head.
“Remember what?”
“Sienna.” There was a wild look in his eyes as he moved closer to my end of the bed and lay a heavy hand on my shoulder. “I changed my jersey after I burned it. Remember?”
I shook my head. “No. You tried to wash it in the sink. But it didn’t work, so you gave up. Then you said you might go and change it while I went to the bathroom. But you didn’t.”
“I did,” he insisted.
