Marrow

“You are filthy, Dr. Sorensen,” I say with a grin.

“And you love it.”

My heart drums heavy beats and I turn my gaze away from Jack as he rights my panties over my ass and hips, then my pants. My thoughts are caught on the cabin, on the box in the basement. My mind is so consumed by the swell of fears I’ve been pushing down into my darkest corners that I don’t notice Jack watching me until he rises to his feet.

“Kyrie…? What is it?”

“Nothing,” I say with a flash of a smile. Jack doesn’t seem convinced by my first attempt, so I try a little harder with a wider smile that lingers. “Nothing, really. I just got a text from Dr. Ca

Jack frowns. “He can’t wait?” When I shake my head and shrug, Jack’s frown deepens. “Text me as soon as you get to your office. I don’t like the thought of Hayes lurking without me around. I can take care of this,” Jack offers, nodding toward the body. A wicked grin shatters the worry that darkened his expression only a moment ago. “There are some souvenirs I’d like to take.”

“That would be great, actually. If you wouldn’t mind packing up my bow and putting it in the basement when you do, I’ll set off the traps.”

Jack nods and I turn away before he can read anything more from my eyes. No words flow between us as we work, Jack cleaning my arrow and knife as I spring the traps hidden around the perimeter of the clearing. When we’re done, we stand facing one another next to Colby’s body, his unseeing eyes pointed to the sky.

“There’s equipment in the basement if you need,” I say, my heart pounding so hard against my sternum that I’m sure it will etch my fears into bone. A crease flickers between Jack’s brows, his gaze dropping to the flush heating my cheeks.

“Are you sure—”

“There’s some other stuff there. In the basement. For you,” I say. Jack’s head tilts, his eyes narrowing. I thrust the tablet in his direction and he takes it with a tentative hand. When he looks up, my waiting smile is lopsided and sly. “It’s not a trap, I promise. I can’t lock you in if you have this.”

Jack’s gaze falls back to the tablet and before he can ask, I close the distance between us, rising on my toes to press my lips to his.

And for once, time slows at the perfect moment.

I feel every breath. I relish every millimeter of skin my touch consumes as I fold one hand across the back of Jack’s neck. I take in the scent of vetiver, warm and comforting. The taste of his lips, the smooth caress of his tongue. The chill in his fingertips as they trace my cheek to thread into my hair. The way his arm folds across my back to hold me close. Like I’m cherished. Like this could be a world where he doesn’t let go.

But he does, and time rights itself, refusing to die.

“Bye, Jack,” I say, letting my touch fall away with the brightest smile I can manage. Jack must be putting pieces together, because he doesn’t give voice to his questions. He doesn’t say anything at all, in fact. He just looks toward the cabin for a long moment before returning his gaze to me.

I take a deep breath.

And then I walk away.

I try not to turn around, but when I reach the mouth of the path, I can’t help it. I stop and look over my shoulder to find Jack watching me, his expression unreadable. He’s just as I would always want to imagine him. Beautiful and fierce. My angel of vengeance, with my cabin lying behind him, all its secrets in the basement, my kill lying at his feet.

“Thank you, Jack,” I say. There’s softness in my smile. In my eyes. I can feel it, just like I can feel the burn of tears climbing my throat.

With a look just long enough to remember forever, I leave Jack behind.

When I’m out of view, I run.

It’s nearly a half mile on the winding, root-laden path back to the small clearing where both our vehicles are parked just off the logging road. My Land Rover eats the gravel road as fast as I dare to push it, and in just a few minutes I’m on the highway, heading back to Westview.

Within twenty minutes, I’m at Jack’s house.

Cornetto follows close on my heels as I head upstairs, trying to keep my body language relaxed even though my guts are twisting tighter with every second that passes. I enter the spare bedroom that has a desk and set up my work laptop, logging into the university VPN. Then I open my personal laptop, and set it next to my work computer where I know my body will function as a barrier to the camera hidden in the corner of the room.

I keep my motions minimal as I hack into Jack’s security system and record myself and the other rooms of the house. Then I set a few work emails up to release at random times over the next few hours before I set my mouse on a mouse jiggler. When everything is set, I take over the camera feed and set my video to play on a loop. It’s not the most perfect alibi, but it will have to do.

I turn to Cornetto, whose tail swishes against the duvet on the guest bed. “Wish me luck, Corndog.”

With a final pat and a kiss on the head, I leave Cornetto to guard the house alone.

I drive on the side streets back to my house, knowing there are no cameras on the route. When I get home, I park in the garage at the back, then head through the yard to the patio doors. The house is silent and still, its details both welcoming and foreign to me now. Where Jack’s house feels monochromatic, mine is bursting with color and pattern. Bright paintings and enlarged photos of wildlife mix with souvenirs I’ve acquired during my summers conducting field research. But somehow, it feels like a museum now. Even a few days of another life have made my days of solitude here seem like a memory.

“Better get reacquainted with it now,” I say to myself.

I stop in front of a photo in my living room. It’s one from a tag and release program I worked on while supporting a professor’s research on lynx behavior. We sedated the cats and fit them with radio collars to map their territories and interactions. The photo is one of me smiling at the camera, my hand resting on the plush fur of a sleeping male. The collar was set to break away after five years. Somewhere, if he’s still alive, that lynx is free of us now, hunting and fighting and living without our watchful gaze.

If I’m successful, the same will be true of Jack. He’ll be able to go wherever he wants without the threat of Hayes or my mountain of evidence keeping him from his plans. And this time, I won’t haunt his tracks.

I check my watch as I run through the next steps. Get the pistol from the gun safe. Text Jack. Send a message to Hayes. 

I’m about to turn for the basement when something hits me in the back.

I drop to the floor, stu

Even if I could, it’s too late.

A wet rag clamps across my nose and mouth. I try to hold my breath and struggle, but it’s inevitable. One inhale of the sweet scent of citrus and acetone and my mind spins.

“It will be all right, Isobel,” a man’s voice says over the protest of my weak moan.

“Just go to sleep.”

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TWENTY-ONE

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VESSELS

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JACK

The cabin is quiet. The surrounding forest whispers in hushed tones. The twitter of wood thrushes that are late to migrate. The rustle of squirrels in the dense underbrush. I pack the arrows and compound bow away in the case, appreciating Kyrie’s taste in weapons.