Page 5 of Sawyer
Before I can reply, Edgar clears his throat loudly from the doorway, and I quickly straighten. Sawyer retreats to a respectful distance, though the intensity of his gaze never wavers.
“Miss Kingsley,” Edgar says, eyes darting between us. “Mr. Maddox, Detective Hartley is here.”
Sawyer straightens instantly, slipping back into professional mode. “Good. Let's get this envelope to him.”
I follow Sawyer out to the foyer, where Detective Hartley stands, looking grim and official as always. Middle-aged with a graying buzz cut, he nods politely at me.
“Camille, sorry we’re meeting under these circumstances again.”
“Again being the key word,” I reply dryly. “You must be tired of my drama by now.”
“Never tired of keeping people safe,” he says earnestly, taking the bagged envelope Sawyer hands him. “We’ll run prints, check for DNA. Hopefully, we'll catch a break.”
Sawyer crosses his arms, his biceps straining deliciously beneath the fabric. “Any progress on your end?”
Hartley shakes his head. “No solid leads yet, but we’re watching closely. Miss Kingsley, please remain vigilant.”
Sawyer glances at me sharply, clearly translating ‘remain vigilant’ as ‘follow Sawyer’s orders without question.’ I offer a small salute. “Vigilant is my new middle name.”
Hartley gives a small smile, handing Sawyer his card. “Call me if anything changes.”
Once the detective leaves, Sawyer turns to me, expression steely. “How often do these letters come?”
I shrug, uncomfortable with the direction this conversation is taking. “Every few days, I guess.”
“You guess?” His tone hardens. “You need to take this seriously, Cam. Whoever this is, they're escalating. They want something, and they're not going to stop until they get it.”
“I am serious,” I argue, a stubborn edge creeping into my voice. “But hiding away won’t solve anything.”
“Neither will pretending it’s not happening.” He steps closer again, crowding my space, his eyes locked fiercely onto mine. “I can’t protect you if you keep acting like you’re invincible.”
My heart races under the heat of his stare, my breath catching slightly. “Maybe I don’t want to feel like I need protection.”
“You do,” he says quietly, firmly. “And you have it, whether you want it or not.”
We stand there, locked in a silent standoff, neither willing to back down. Finally, I sigh, relenting slightly. “Okay, I’ll listen. But you have to understand—I won’t stop living my life.”
“Fair enough,” he agrees after a beat. “Then we compromise. You keep me informed, and I'll keep you safe.”
“Deal.” I hold out my hand, surprised by the strength and warmth of his grip as we shake.
I pull away, suddenly needing air, distance. “Well, Mr. Maddox, if you’re planning to shadow my every move, I suggest you become familiar with my home studio. We have a mural to paint Saturday.”
“Lead the way.” His eyes soften, the intensity replaced by gentle amusement. “And remember, it’s Sawyer.”
“Right,” I say, smiling despite myself. “Sawyer.”
I head toward the side exit, feeling his presence behind me like a comforting shadow. We walk out into the sunlight, the lush gardens blooming vibrantly around us, the sweet scent of honeysuckle heavy in the air.
“My studio’s back here,” I explain, navigating the familiar cobblestone path. “It’s my sanctuary.”
He makes a soft, approving sound as he steps into my brightly lit haven. Paintings cover every surface—landscapes, abstract shapes, vibrant portraits. Sawyer stops to examine one canvas closely, head tilted curiously.
“Wow,” he whispers softly.
I approach, heart fluttering strangely at the vulnerability of sharing this space with him. “What do you think?”
He looks at me, admiration mingling with something deeper, more intense. “Beautiful. Complicated. Like their creator.”
