Page 160 of Buried in Blood

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Nothing.

Just the parking lot. Just empty cars. Just flickering neon from the diner sign across the highway.

But he doesn’t need headlights.

He doesn’t need noise.

He needs silence.

Like now.

I back away from the window, still holding the gun.

Still shaking.

I crawl into the corner of the bed and press my back to the wall, knees hugged to my chest, finger hovering near the trigger guard.

I know what I need to do if he comes through that door.

I know where to aim.

Reese told me.

“Aim for his fucking head.”

But what if I freeze?

What if I hesitate?

What if part of me still wants to hear him say my name?

I close my eyes and try not to remember the warmth of his hand on my thigh, the whisper ofmineagainst my skin.

The things he took. The things he marked.

The brand still aches when I breathe too deeply.

I open my eyes. Point the gun at the door.

And wait.

There’s no knock.

No footsteps.

Just the quiet hum of a motel fridge and the beat of my own heart threatening to crack my ribs from the inside.

I stay like that for hours—maybe longer—gun in hand, breath shallow, eyes locked on the door.

And I wonder…

If I’m hiding from him.

Orfrom myself.

* * *

The knock is louder this time.

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