Chapter 6

Pierce

She's got a knife. Her beautiful brown eyes are pinned out the doorway. Looking for me, I presume. But she won't find me.

When Mrs. Wells told me I had a new tenant coming, I made quick work of sifting through her background. Vetting those who stay in my family home is a must. Though, usually I'm the gracious host. I'll introduce myself on the first day of their stay, tell them where my house is if they need any help with anything. But something about her has me acting out of character.

Well, a character I haven't portrayed in a long time.

Being ex-CIA leaves its mark on the soul—and the personality. I've got my fair share of scars. My innate ability to watch from the wings, making like a ghost when I need to, comes in handy sometimes. And now is one of those times.

The passages in the walls help me get around without being noticed. This house was a part of the Underground Railroad. Or so grandma liked to tell us kids. When we'd hear any rustling within the passages, she'd say it was echoes of living history lurking within them. We spent most of the years scared to death of this house.

And yet, it was the only thing I inherited from my family.

I'd watched her all day from the passages, noting that each room has a small hole for watching, burrowed strategically for that purpose. Which has me wondering what they really could be for. It certainly wasn't for hiding people.

I've toured some homes on the Railroad's direct line, and they have small hidden cupboards, sure, but not full-on peeping Tom tunnels in the walls.

She's a writer. And a prolific one at that.

I once read a book on writing. One that said there are all types of writers. Ones who plan out their novels to the tenth degree. Some that sit down and outline using certain methods and online tools. And then, there are those who sit down and let the fictional world possess them. Their body becoming the engine for their next great work. And the way I'd watched her sink into the fantastical and out of reality was spellbinding.

I haven't let myself near a woman in so long. I don't trust myself. Not after the last time I snapped and couldn't tell where I was.

PTSD will do that to you. One minute, I'm here. The next, I'm somewhere else, watching my partner get stabbed in the gut over and over.

I shake my head, thumping my fist into it for good measure as the imagery tries to coax. My broken brain is how I'd lost my position in the CIA. How I'd come to find myself back in this godforsaken town, renting out the house that still creeps me out to no end.

Her phone rings, and her eyes leave the open doorway of the kitchen.

I perk up.

Last night, I'd shut the light off.

I don't know what I'd been thinking. I couldn't watch her bounce another time through the air. Her round, perfect breasts calling to me like sirens in the middle of a dark ocean.

Some dumb facet of me thought if I could approach her in the dark, she'd be more apt to go quietly. That hadn't been the case.

She was screaming and running, like her life depended on it within a flash of a second. The cops were called, and I'd had to scramble home for when they showed at my place to tell me what happened.

Sean thought it was funny, the girl renting the house alone and not realizing what noises older houses in this area make in the winter. But, little did he know, it was me, being a fucking idiot.

Something about her has my brain hyper-focused for the first time since coming home. For once, I'm not moving through heavy fog. Everything is crystal clear. Especially her fire-engine-red hair.

"Cam, I told you. I have to stay here. Plus, I think I'm going to be snowed in tonight, anyhow."

I hope not. I won't be able to get home.

I think about being stuck here with her. In her aura. No, I can't do that. I'd not survive it. She'd not benefit.

The only reason I'm not in prison right now is because those I killed for Cynthia's death were wanted by the government. But the blood on my hands is thick and still warm. I can't be near her. Neither of us will survive it.

She puts her phone onto speaker and lays it on the tabletop, focusing her eyes back on the door. Even though I haven't made a noise since I'd crawled into the small passage hold in Gram's bedroom, she's fixated on listening for the next time I fumble.

The passage entryways were defiantly not built for someone my size. Every time I think I can get out of them unscathed; I stumble and knock into something.

My size had come in handy for my job. It alone would intimidate even the most lethal subject. But for stealthy work, it's not proving as such.

"Hazel, listen to me..."

Hazel.

The name rolls through my brain, stroking each portion of gray matter and causing electrodes to tingle.

Hazel rolls her eyes at whomever is on the phone. From what I've gathered, Cam is her agent. And she's on a major deadline for her book. It seems it's why she rented my family's home. To get away from whatever is blocking her.

"Don't you think you should go home for Christmas?"

My eyes flick toward Hazel, waiting for her answer on bated breath.

Something haunting flashes through her eyes. A faraway look that tells me she's got demons the same as I do. I press my face further into the cold wood, as if it'll zoom her image any closer to me.

"No, Cam. I don't... I can't go back there. Too much has happened. Too much she won't atone for."

Cam clears her throat. "I know you're struggling with family stuff, but I can't imagine not seeing mine. I wish you'd tell me what happened last Christmas, Haze."

The nickname is fitting. Because since I've encountered her, even through the walls, I'm in a fucking haze. One I can't seem to get out of.

Hazel looks up at the wall, and it's as if she's looking right at me. But her gaze is glassy and otherworldly. She's walking this plane of existence, but she's a victim of her memories. A hostage, more like. It's in her dark eyes as they well with tears.

"I can't talk about it," she finally tells her friend.

Cam sighs into the phone deeply. "Well, you can't stay there with the ghosts, either. Want me to come up?"

Panic fills Hazel's face, and I wonder why. If that's her friend, why wouldn't she want company? It would surely drive me away. To be in the passages when she's here is one thing. But the two of them being here would be too risky.

Even if this is my home, being found out would damage my reputation in town and my livelihood. And Cam seems the type to not let sleeping dogs lie. She's a problem.

"No, I don't want you missing Christmas for me. I'll be fine. This will be good for me. I need to work through some things. And I need to write."

"Oh good. You're writing," Cam says in reply, relief washing through her tone.

Hazel bites her lip.

It's a tell. A devious little action that she'd done yesterday as I watched her delete her work and start again. I could tell the second time she began; she was writing what she wanted.

"Oh yeah, I'm writing."

"Well," Cam says excitedly, "get back to it. I don't want to take up all of your time. Just stay safe, alright? And call me if you need me. You know I love you, girl. I will drop everything and come spend the month with you."

Hazel's cheeks heat with emotion. "Thank you, Cam. I will be fine. I promise."

But I can tell even Hazel herself doesn't believe the statement.

And I can't say I disagree with her worries.

Because, when it comes to Hazel, I don't seem to have self-control. And a side of me that's supposed to be buried is surfacing again.

And he's dangerous to let loose.

* * *

She's asleep.Her red hair is strung across her face like she just walked through the blizzard outside the house. I'm pressing my luck staying here, and I know it. They're calling for white-out conditions tonight, and getting home will be a bitch. But when I'd tried to leave, all I could think about was: what if I can't get back?

I move her hair from over her face, only touching her with the finest amount of pressure. She gasps in her sleep and turns over.

I watched her the other night on the couch. She's got something dark lurking beneath the surface, and when her eyes close and her walls are down, it grabs for her. It tugs her under the never-ending water, and she fights with it until she wakes.

I know just how she feels. It's why I barely sleep.

I wonder if she knows, though. If she knows how much of a hold her past has on her. She rouses with purple bags under eyes even after eight hours of sleep, I've noticed. Whatever it is, it's taking its toll.

She's been here a week now. Only three more weeks until she's gone. And yet, I've still been stalking the passages and the house like a wraith in disguise. I can't leave her alone.

When she showered, my face was pressed tightly to the dank wood of the passage, eye nearly getting a splinter as I carved over every curve of her body through the sheer curtain.

And when she let her hands slip somewhere forbidden, I'd nearly died within the walls.

I don't know what it is about her that draws me to her more than I've been drawn to anyone else before. I've never been so obsessed with someone in my life.

Cases used to do this to me. They'd consume me whole until my captain would step in and tell me to simmer the fuck down. It never worked, though. I just got better at hiding my fixations.

Now, I'm literally and figuratively hiding them. Well, hiding from them.

"No, you can't..." Hazel says, and I stiffen, thinking that she's awoken.

Her head flails, legs clamping together tightly.

Something in my chest tightens. My brows draw upward on my forehead in concern.

"Please..." her voice is raspy and pleading.

My heart nearly shatters at whatever hellish memory she's trapped within. I long to help her with it. To wake her and hold her until it's but an echo.

But I can't let her know I've been stalking her. She'd call the police. And I can't allow that to happen. Skills I haven't used for a very long time would come into play then. And thinking of having to bury her beautiful body isn't something that excites me.

I sigh, moving out of the room and back upstairs, where I know I can make enough noise to bring her out of her nightmare. But I worry as I throw a chair against a wall that I'm creating a new narrative for her dark dreams. That I am becoming something else she'll have to fear going forward.

But when I check the camera I'd installed in her room, I hear her gasp and sit up. Her eyes look upward as I smirk and stomp on the floor.

"Good morning, little ember," I say, running my finger over her outline on the camera. Even though it's three a.m., I've done my job. She's out of one nightmare, and back in the reality of this fucked up December. With me.