Chapter Six #2
Because she knew men like him. She’d loved one once.
A biker with a smile that could melt a woman’s reason and lies that could hollow her out.
He’d promised Casey forever and left her with nothing but broken edges.
She’d clawed her way back from that wreckage, rebuilt herself piece by piece, and sworn she’d never fall again.
And yet here she was, heart racing, breath unsteady, drawn to Chase like a moth to a flame.
He slowed as he passed, the engine purring low, his face shadowed by the dark lenses of his sunglasses.
For a heartbeat, she could have sworn his gaze found hers.
Heat flared through her fast, reckless, and traitorous.
Then he was gone, the sound fading down the street, leaving her heart thudding too fast.
Casey drew in a steadying breath and forced her feet to move. All at once, the street hummed with life again. Shop doors opened, laughter spilled from a small bistro, and a gust of wind lifted the edges of a banner strung across Main Street reading Fall Festival: Next Weekend.
By the time she reached her office her breathing had steadied, but her thoughts hadn’t. She unlocked the door, stepped inside, and inhaled the familiar scent of paper, coffee, and the faint trace of her favorite cinnamon candle.
Casey placed her purse on the desk, the brown paper sack from Black Moon Hollow beside it.
For a long moment she just stood there, staring at it, her thoughts drifting between Curtis’s cold stare and Chase’s shadowed eyes, between chill and heat, dread and desire.
Then she exhaled, sat down, slipped the book from the bag, and opened it.
At this point she’d do anything to silence the echo of that engine and the dangerous longing it had left behind.
The book’s cover was matte black, the title embossed in silver: Ghosts of the High Country. The writing was straightforward, almost journalistic, but something in the tone unsettled her, a detached fascination with how the dead left their mark on the living.
Casey leaned back in her chair, tracing the rim of her coffee mug as she read. A gust of wind rattled the window behind her, and for a second, she thought she heard footsteps outside, quick and uneven. She froze, listening. Nothing. Just wind and traffic.
Her gaze fell back to the book. A passage near the middle caught her eye about a small mountain town, settled in the late 1800s, plagued by a string of murders that had never been solved. The author described it as a “place that kept its secrets well.”
Casey frowned. The accompanying photograph showed a narrow street lined with brick buildings and hanging signs that looked eerily familiar. The caption read: Main Street, Pinewood Springs, 1903.
She flipped a few pages ahead. The next section described the victims: young, dark-haired women found within weeks of each other, all of them strangled, each left with a crown of flowers woven in her hair.
She stared at the page, her eyes skimming the lines a second time until the print blurred.
Thrumming her fingers on the desk, she reached for a quote she’d read long ago, half-buried in memory.
It teased the edge of her mind—something about how the past never really dies, but simply waits to be noticed.
A chill traced the back of her neck. This is crazy. I’m freaking myself out. I’m reading way more into this than there is. It’s just a coincidence.
“I blame all this on that weirdo Curtis and the way he was acting,” she muttered under her breath. “I’m convinced he does it for effect. He wants people to think he’s strange.”
The sharp buzz of her phone made her jump. The screen lit with a message from Raven: Did you get the book? Call me when you can.
Casey exhaled, her pulse slowing as she stared at the words. The timing was eerie, too perfect. She huffed out a laugh. “Okay, that’s not creepy at all,” she said, setting the phone face-down on the desk.
For a long moment she sat still, listening to the faint hum of traffic outside and the whisper of leaves brushing the window. A soft knock sounded at the door, pulling Casey from her thoughts.
“Come in,” she said.
The door opened and Clara stepped inside, carrying the faint scent of paint and sawdust.
“Hi, Casey,” she said, hesitating just inside the door. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”
“Not at all,” Casey said, pushing the book aside. “How are rehearsals going?”
Clara smiled. “Busy. We’re still waiting on two flats to dry before we can paint, and the director’s already panicking about the upcoming final run-through.” She chuckled. “You know how it gets.”
“I do. And you’re keeping him sane, I hope?”
“I’m trying,” Clara said, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “Actually, I came by to drop off some receipts for supplies and … uh … to apologize for my brother.”
She looked up. “Chase?”
Clara nodded. “Yeah. He can be a real flirt sometimes, especially around women he thinks are… you know.” She flushed slightly. “He doesn’t mean anything by it, it’s just how he is. I told him he needs to rein it in.”
A smile whispered across Casey’s lips. “No worries. Anyway, he was perfectly polite.”
That wasn’t exactly true. Polite wasn’t the word that came to mind. He’d been too sure of himself—too sexy for his own good—and he’d known it. Worse, he’d flaunted it like a challenge, and she hated how easily he’d gotten under her skin.
Clara looked relieved but still uneasy. “Good. He’s a nice guy, really. He just… likes attention. Especially from someone like you.”
“Someone like me?”
Clara gave an awkward laugh. “Strong. Confident. You know, not the kind of woman who falls for his routine.” She glanced toward the door. “Anyway, I just didn’t want you to think he was being disrespectful.”
“It’s all good. Don’t worry yourself over this,” Casey said. “And thanks for bringing the receipts.”
Clara nodded, clearly grateful for the out. “Of course. I’ll let you get back to work.”
“See you tomorrow,” she said as Clara slipped out.
The door closed behind her, and the quiet of the office settled back in.
Casey leaned back in her chair, staring at the files on her desk, the ones she’d stopped pretending she was going to work on.
Not the kind of woman who falls for his routine.
The words lingered, sharper than she wanted to admit.
She exhaled and rubbed her temples, trying to push him out of her mind. But beneath the irritation was something she didn’t want to name—something that felt like heat and danger intertwined.
Curtis’s warning drifted back to her then, quiet and unnerving: Some people are drawn to what’s dark and striking.
Casey straightened, the echo of his voice catching her off guard. It means nothing. Still, the words resonated as the light outside began to fade. She rose and walked to the door, and for the first time all day, she turned the lock before switching on the lights.