Total pages in book: 33
Estimated words: 35133 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 176(@200wpm)___ 141(@250wpm)___ 117(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 35133 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 176(@200wpm)___ 141(@250wpm)___ 117(@300wpm)
A snapped limb.
Too clean. Too deliberate.
“That?” I point.
He nods once. “Good.”
I push to my feet and step toward it, reaching out to brush my fingers along the break. The wood feels fresh, recently snapped.
“The wind didn’t do that,” I say.
“No.”
“This way,” he says, already moving.
I follow him deeper into the trees, the cabin disappearing behind us faster than I like. “You sure this is smart?” I ask.
“No.”
“Reassuring.”
“But it’s necessary.”
I huff out a breath but keep moving, because I need to see this, need to understand what’s happening instead of guessing.
He moves through the forest like he belongs to it, every step quiet, controlled, placed with purpose. I try to match him, but it’s harder than it looks. Branches snap under my boots. Leaves crunch. Every sound feels too loud.
“You’re loud,” he says without turning.
“Sorry I wasn’t trained in woodland stalking.”
“You were trained to observe.”
“That’s different.”
“Not really.”
He stops suddenly, and I nearly run into him. My hand shoots out on instinct, catching his arm to steady myself, and the contact is immediate and solid, his warmth cutting through the cold in a way that feels like too much.
I pull back quickly.
“Watch it,” he says.
“You stopped.”
“Because you’re about to walk right into his path.”
That lands harder than anything else so far.
“Show me,” I say.
He steps aside slightly, giving me a clear view, and at first I don’t see it. Then the pattern comes together, subtle but unmistakable. Broken twigs. Disturbed leaves. A line through the forest that doesn’t belong.
“He’s circling,” Ethan says.
My pulse spikes. “Circling what?”
“You.”
The word hits like a blow.
I shake my head immediately. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“It does if you’re the target.”
“I am the target,” I snap. “I know that.”
“Then stop pretending this is random.”
I step closer, frustration rising. “I’m not pretending anything.”
“You are,” he says, turning to face me. “You’re acting like this is bad luck, like you just ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“And it’s not?”
His gaze locks on mine. “No.”
The silence stretches between us, tight and charged.
“What are you saying?” I ask, quieter now.
He studies me for a second, long enough that my skin feels too tight. “This isn’t someone who stumbled across you,” he says. “This is someone who knows you.”
My stomach drops.
“No,” I shake my head. “That’s not—no.”
“You said the photos weren’t random.”
“They’re not.”
“Then neither is this.”
I step back, shaking my head harder. “I don’t know anyone here.”
“Doesn’t have to be here.”
The words settle heavy in my chest, pulling something up I don’t want to look at.
“No,” I say again. “This is just some creep who—”
“Who what?” Ethan cuts in. “Picked you at random? Followed you into the mountains for no reason?”
I don’t answer, because I don’t have one, because something cold and sharp is starting to take shape inside me.
“You left something behind,” he says.
I look up at him. “What?”
“Back wherever you came from,” he continues. “Someone. Something.”
My throat tightens. “I didn’t—”
“You did.”
His voice isn’t harsh. It’s certain, and that’s worse.
I shake my head, backing up another step. “You don’t know that.”
“I know patterns,” he says. “I do this for a living, Maddie. I’ve been a mountain ranger since I left the desert. Everything about this feels personal, is there anything you may have left out?”
The word echoes in my head.
His gaze softens slightly, but it doesn’t change anything. “You need to tell me.”
“I don’t have anything to tell you.”
“That’s not true.”
“Stop,” I snap, heat flaring. “You don’t get to dig into my life like this.”
“I do if it keeps you alive.”
“I was fine before I got here.”
“No, you weren’t.”
The silence that follows is heavy and unavoidable. I hate how easily he cuts through everything I try to hold together.
“I handled it,” I say, quieter now.
“Yeah?” he asks. “How?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out, because I didn’t. Not really. I ran. And he knows it.
“Exactly,” he says.
I glare at him. “You don’t know me.”
“I know enough.”
“You don’t know what I’ve been through.”
His gaze darkens. “Then tell me.”
The words hang between us, equal parts invitation and demand.
I shake my head. “No.”
He steps closer again, close enough that I feel it, that pressure, that pull I don’t want to acknowledge. “Then understand this,” he says, his voice dropping. “Whoever’s out here might know you better than I do.”
My breath catches.
“And if you don’t start talking, he stays one step ahead.”
I swallow hard, hating how true that feels.
“What do we do?” I ask.
His gaze holds mine, steady and certain. “We hunt him.”
A chill moves through me, not fear exactly, but something sharper.
“And if he finds me first?”
Something shifts in his expression, something dangerous and controlled.
“He won’t,” he says.
“You don’t know that.”
His hand lifts slowly, stopping just short of my face, close enough that I feel the heat of it without contact.
“I do,” he says quietly.
My pulse pounds. “Why?”
His gaze drops briefly to my mouth, then lifts again.