“No!” She leaned on the railing. “Nooooooo!”
“What?” Sawyer shouted, panic in his voice.
“No way. No way! No freaking way!”
“What?” This time he sounded leery.
“Is that . . .” She trailed off as she pointed to the photo and he slowly brought the vodka to his lips again. His throat worked as he gulped it down. One. Two. Two and a half. Then he set the bottle on the counter and wiped his lips with the back of his hand.
His shirt was still off and, for a moment, she wondered if maybe she was developing a fever because why else would the sight make her so hot and swoony? Maybe she’d been hurt in the fall? Maybe . . .
“I can neither confirm nor deny . . .”
Zoe looked back at the little boy in the photo. “It’s you! Gasp!”
Sawyer let out a weary, put-upon sigh. “You know, most people don’t actually say ‘gasp’; they just—”
“You were a child!” She took a step closer to him. And he took a step closer to her. “You were cute!” she said, like that was the most vicious accusation in the world. Then she cocked her hip. “What happened?”
She’d meant it to tease, to joke. Because her favorite thing in the world was teasing this grumpy, growly man who never let her drive and was really good at building fires and pulling glass out of toes and drinking vodka while shirtless.
It wasn’t supposed to make him grimace and growl in the not-fun way. But something shifted in that moment. She knew it the moment he said, “That’s classified,” and walked away.
*
She found him on the porch, staring out over the snow that glistened like a sea of crystals. “We should be safe here.” He grabbed an armload of firewood, then ushered her back inside and locked the door.
“Sawyer . . .”
“This place isn’t in my name.” He walked to the fireplace and dropped the wood. “The bills are paid out of a numbered bank account, and I haven’t been here personally in twenty years, so—”
“Sawyer.”
“—no one can tie this place to me. Not the agencies and definitely not Kozlov. You take the loft. I’m used to the couch. And I don’t sleep—”
“You might sleep if you tried it in a bed for once!”
“No, Zoe. I wouldn’t. So take the fucking loft.” She’d seen him frustrated and tired and hungry and annoyed and excited and terrified. But she’d never seen him mad before—not at her.
Then he started blowing out candles, leaving nothing but little whisps of smoke swirling like ribbons in the moonlight.
“Why do I get the feeling you’d rather let me stab you in the other side than tell me what this place is?”
“It’s nothing. Really. Just someplace I used to come when I was a kid. That’s all.”
He started to push past her, but she reached for him. She wasn’t sure why. It’s not like she could stop him—take him—beat him in a fight. But as soon as her fingers grazed his skin he froze.
“Get some rest, lady.” His lips twitched at the name he used to call her, but it sounded different now, and for the life of her, Zoe couldn’t pinpoint how or why.
He opened his mouth as if to say one more thing, but the words didn’t come—just a quick breath. And then the last candle went out.
Chapter Forty-Five
Her
The light from the fireplace danced across the steepled pitch of the ceiling. It was like some kind of puppet show the fire was putting on just for her, but Zoe was too tired to pay attention to the story. So she stayed in the big bed in the big loft, worrying. Thinking. Listening to the sounds from down below—the scrape of a chair against the floor, a curtain being drawn, sparks shooting out from the fire and catching on the screen.
How many times did she start to get up? To call for him? She lost count. And before she knew it, she was sleeping. Right up until the moment when she wasn’t.
At what point does a person become immune to the sound of screaming? Zoe wondered an instant before she bolted awake to the sound of, “No!”
“Sawyer,” she said as she threw the covers off. He’d found an old T-shirt for her to sleep in, but the air was cold on her bare legs as she ran from the toasty loft to the man who was lying on the sofa, sweat pouring off him even though it was colder there closer to the fire.
“Sawyer?” She expected him to bolt awake and act like nothing had happened, but he was drenched in sweat and had turned the color of paper.