Chapter 16
To Do:
- Find a way to lose the press’s interest—plug a different charity every time they harass me?
- Send applicant acceptance letters
- Check in with Aaron
The cab woundits way deeper into the woods that surrounded West Haven, the opposite end of town from Luke’s house. Every time Claire glanced behind her, headlights still followed them into the darkness. At this point, she wasn’t sure whether they were reporters or locals.
“Almost there,” the cab driver reported, slowing down.They hadn’t passed a mailbox in a mile or two.
“Are we near the lake?” Claire asked.
“‘Bout a half mile off this road. Good kayaking in the summer.”
“Good to know.”
The cab turned at a barely noticeable driveway with a Private—No Trespassing sign planted firmly in the ground. The mailbox leaned slightly on its post.
As they left the paved road, the cars behind them slowed and then stopped. Bastards. The cab pulled up outside a charming Cape Cod home. The house, though unassuming, was surrounded by beautiful landscaping. A mechanically edged flower bed contained a handful of hostas. A rock-lined pathway led the way to the wraparound porch. Crimson geraniums flanked the front door in squat pots.
Claire paid the driver and opened her door, ready to drag her bag out of the trunk. Her heart stopped.
Wait. Her friends and the cops weren’t the only people who knew about the note. Sawyer was the first one to respond to the scene. How could she have forgotten? Could he have told the press? And now she was stranded at his house in the middle of the woods with no neighbors for a good mile. Not to mention he was gigantic and could probably subdue her using only his nondominant pinkie. How could she be such an idiot?
The ground trembled beneath her, and a low boof came from somewhere behind her. She whirled around. All her tasers were at home, the warehouse, or Luke’s car. Damn TSA. She was ready to hurl her bag when a Rottweiler with a big, goofy smile approached the cab.
“Well, hello, handsome.” Claire held out her hand.
Rosie hid behind Claire’s legs, sniffing fearfully at the newcomer. She generally preferred pugs and other vertically challenged dogs.
The giant sniffed her hand for a moment before licking it and letting out another boof. He disappeared around the corner of the house.
Claire’s heart thudded uncomfortably. Surely Sawyer hadn’t leaked the information to the press. He had saved her life. And he was one of Kyle’s best friends. But how well did she know him really? She needed to be sure. Maybe it was best to come right out and ask while she still had a witness present.
Sawyer emerged from a side door, tugging his customary black T-shirt over an impressive set of abs. Though she was emotionally distraught and slightly concerned that he was a rat, she wasn’t blind.
“Are you okay?” he asked as soon as he approached. He reached toward her but seemed to think better of it.
“I’m fine. Hey, any chance you leaked the story about the note in my apartment to the press?”
Sawyer did a double take. “Leaked what? The note?”
The cabbie got out of the car and pulled her luggage from the trunk. He paused, also looking at Sawyer.
Claire crossed her arms and stared him down. “Did you tell the press about the note?” Each word was as sharp in her mouth as a dagger.
“God, no.” There was shock in his eyes. “I would never do that to you. To anyone.”
All the signs of genuine surprise were there—wide eyes, expression of disbelief. But she had been fooled before.
“Okay.” He passed for now. But she was going to keep her wits about her.
Sawyer raised his eyebrows but took her bags from the cabbie and thanked him before ushering her inside. Her heart thudded again as she crossed the threshold. There wasn’t any sinister energy emanating from the house. On the contrary, it was well-worn and comfortable, if a bit crowded.
While Luke’s house was one you’d find in a magazine, Sawyer’s was one you’d find if you went to visit your grandma. A hand-me-down oak table and mismatched pair of kitchen chairs stood to her right. The living room, in which every flat surface was crowded with picture frames, was on the left.
“Will you stay here for a minute? I? want to make sure the paparazzi clears off the property,” he said, strolling over to a cabinet and entering a code on a small keypad.
“Sure,” she said as the cabinet door popped open.
Sawyer consulted the contents for a moment before drawing out a shotgun.
Her breath hitched. Was “clearing off the paparazzi” just code? Was he going to shoot her in cold blood?
“Make yourself at home,” he said, gesturing to the mismatched navy blue couch and plaid-patterned armchair. “I’ll be right back.”
“Thanks.” Claire set her bag on the floor.Sawyer left through the side door, and she stuffed her phone into her bra. It might not save her, but it would certainly take him longer to find it.
She pushed a plaid curtain to the side. He was walking toward the driveway, so maybe murder wasn’t on the agenda after all. Unless he was just lulling her into a false sense of security. Her fingers shook as she typed a quick message to Mindy. She probably wouldn’t have service in the woods, but at least if she disappeared someone would know.
Claire: Long story. If I go missing, I’m at Sawyer’s house. I’m wearing black shorts, those Vera Wang sandals you tried to steal last Friendsgiving, and a white button-down top. You know my laptop password. All my account passwords are stored in the “Grocery List” Excel file. Track my phone.
She sent her location for good measure and tucked her phone away. What kind of home did a security professional keep? Were there nanny cams and motion sensors everywhere? She peered at a one-eyed teddy bear on a shelf next to a comic book. Dozens of framed pictures cluttered Sawyer’s furniture. In one picture, two women hung from his biceps as he held them off the ground. In another, a beautiful redhead in a park ranger uniform thrust her hands toward the sky.
There was time to worry about the enigma of Sawyer later. For now, she needed an emergency weapon. How hard could that be to find in a security guy’s house? She hustled into the kitchen. Perfect. A butcher block. She pulled a small paring knife out, wrapped it in a tea towel, and tucked it in her bra underneath the other boob. Hopefully, that would be enough to prevent her from impaling herself. Then she crossed back to the living room to casually study more of the photos.
The front door banged open.
Claire screamed and leapt backward. It was time. He was coming for her. Her shin crashed into the coffee table, and she fell backward and hit the ground hard. Her already bruised tailbone smarted. She splayed with one leg trapped under the couch and one hand stuffed into her bra, reaching for the knife.
Sawyer’s head hovered over the couch. “Sorry, the door sticks. All clear out front. Am I—uh—interrupting?”
She snatched her hand out of her bra. Her ears went hot. “No, I’m just?—”
“Hiding weapons in your bra in case I’m a murderer? Not a bad move.” He rounded the couch and bent down. He reached out a hand.
She took it, and he pulled her up to standing as easily as if he was picking up an empty laundry bag.
“You’re right.” Claire fished in her bra and drew out the paring knife. She handed it to him. The jig was up. If he did decide to attack her, he knew exactly where to look. Damn it. “Sorry. I’m finding it difficult to trust people these days.”
“Understandable.” He smiled as he unrolled the knife. He handed it back to her.
“Got some strawberries you need me to hull?”
“Nah. If it makes you feel safer, you should keep it.”
“Thank you.” Her guard came down a millimeter. But she would still stab a bitch if she needed to.
“You look like you could use a shower and maybe a cup of tea.”
She frowned and smoothed a hand over her hair. It wasn’t damp anymore, but it probably still had Seine filth on it.
“Not because you look bad or anything, just because you just got off a flight. I? always feel gross when I? fly,” he rambled. “I’m not trying to be creepy, just thought maybe you’d want to feel clean after—you know what, I’m going to stop talking now.”
She smiled. “A shower would be great, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure. Don’t forget your knife.”
Sawyer led her down a narrow, wood-paneled hallway to the bathroom. He hadn’t even asked her anything else. How could that be? He didn’t even know her that well, but he had opened his home to her as readily as if she were his closest friend. Either he was gathering intel or he really was a decent human being.
“I? don’t really have any girly soap or anything.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Help yourself to anything in here, though.”
“Thanks, Sawyer. Listen, I??—”
He put a gentle hand on her wrist to stop her. “You don’t need to explain.”
“Thank you,” she said again, weariness settling into her bones.
He shut the door and left her to her thoughts.
The steamingshower in the 50s-style blue bathtub had brought with it some clarity and acceptance. This wasn’t the first time someone had stomped on her heart with a pair of cleats. She could handle a little heartbreak. Give a girl a fresh pair of leggings and she could do anything.
She wiped a spot clean in the steamy bathroom mirror. You couldn’t even tell she had crawled out of a river and been publicly humiliated in a foreign country. Ha. She twisted her hair up into a towel and zipped her suitcase shut. The paring knife glinted on the bathroom sink. She shrugged, then wrapped it in a clean sock and shoved it back into her bra. Maybe if he did attack her, he wouldn’t expect her to use the same hiding place she had already exposed. She paused with her hand on the doorknob and triple-checked that she was wearing pants. There would be no repeats of the Luke Incident.
Stop thinking about Luke.
The seductive scent of warm bread greeted her when she emerged from the bathroom.
“Wow, that smells amazing.” She stepped into the kitchen and sniffed appreciatively.
Rosie was in the living room, playing tug with the Rottweiler. Crap, she hadn’t even asked his name. Or brought a host gift. Alice would have been even more disappointed in her.
“Oh, thanks,” Sawyer said as he pulled a loaf of homemade bread from the oven. “Gentle, Diesel,” he said over his shoulder. The Rottweiler released the rope and sat on his butt.
Sawyer shut the oven and turned back to Claire. “I? just happened to have a stew in the crockpot that’s almost done. Are you hungry?”
“Starving. Thank you so much. I? really am sorry to just show up like this. I? didn’t know who else to call.”
“You can always call me.”
“Thanks.” She stepped behind the bar to keep some distance between them. Sawyer seemed like a genuine, warm person. And he had quite literally saved her life. But she had planned a proposal for a serial killer. Her judgment was garbage. She couldn’t afford to misjudge someone else. “How can I? help?”
He shrugged. “You could set those bowls out if you want.” He gestured to a mismatched pair that looked like he had been toting around since college. She should send him a matching set from Crate and Barrel to say thank you. Assuming he didn’t murder her.
She placed the bowls on the table along with silverware and napkins and curled up in a chair, hugging her knees to her chest. How did these spindly wooden chairs support Sawyer’s weight?
Her phone beeped, and she glanced at it. It was a confirmation text from a florist in Miami. Alice’s apology flowers and chocolate assortment had just been delivered. Hopefully, it would soften her mom’s heart.
“Feel better after your shower?”
“So much better.” There had been something comforting about the modest, outdated charm of Sawyer’s bathroom. It reminded her of the first house she had lived in with Roy.
“So, the paparazzi were waiting for you when you got home?”
Claire nodded.
“Are you sure your driver didn’t call them?”
Of course he didn’t. But… “You know, I? actually have no idea. But I? wasn’t even supposed to come home until tomorrow morning. As you probably guessed from my interrogation earlier, somebody leaked the news about the note. One of them screamed it at me through the windshield. Luckily they only know about one.”
It was time to deploy the plan she had formulated in the shower. As of that moment, only she, Luke, Charlie, Alice, and the police knew about the Paris note. If she told Sawyer and it ended up in the news the next day, she would know he was untrustworthy.
Sawyer looked at her earnestly as he sawed off a piece of homemade bread and offered it to her.
“Did you say they only know about one note? As in there was another one?”
She nodded and took the bread from him. “Buckle up. It’s story time.”
Sawyer spoke little during her recounting of the Paris trip. She left out the part about Luke’s betrayal. And the sex. What was it about Sawyer that made her want to spill her guts? She still didn’t feel totally at ease, but he was like a blank sheet. She could hurl any thoughts in her head at him and he would let them stick without judgment. He listened carefully, maintaining eye contact and occasionally interjecting with a supportive comment.
After dinner, he led her to the living room. She felt lighter as she sank into the overstuffed couch. He hadn’t told her she was being crazy or irrational. He hadn’t handcuffed her to a radiator and refused to let her be on her own. And she had told the whole story start to finish without crying. Who needed a therapist now, Luke?
Stop thinking about that idiot.
Diesel and Rosie lay together on a massive plaid dog bed, snoring in tandem.
“Sawyer?” she asked, turning to find him.
“Hmm?” he asked, returning with two glasses of wine. “Thought you could use this after today.” He placed a glass in her hand.
“More than you know.” She sniffed the glass hesitantly. What was she expecting to smell? Roofies? Did roofies even have a smell?
“It’s safe.” Sawyer nodded at the glass. He sat in the plaid armchair opposite her.
Her heart thudded in her chest. The sickly sweet smell of chloroform had floated to the surface of her memory again. “Oh, I wasn’t?—”
“I would respect you less if you hadn’t.” His thousand-watt smile lit up his entire face.
“I trust you. I think.” The knife sock jabbed into her ribcage. She shuffled it out of the way and took a sip. The wine—an earthy Bordeaux, if she had to guess—tasted ordinary. Who knew Sawyer had good taste in wine? “Just know that if you plan to murder me, Rosie will be an orphan. You don’t want that on your conscience.”
“If I murdered you, I would one hundred percent dognap Rosie and take her across the country under an assumed name.”
Claire frowned. “That’s comforting.”
“Sorry, bad joke.” The glass looked comically small and spindly in Sawyer’s meaty fist. He swirled it expertly before taking a sip. “You were about to say something? Before the roofies incident.”
“Oh, right. I know I’ve said it before, but I never really thanked you properly for saving my life.” Suspicious or not, she wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t intervened.
His glass clattered when it hit the dog-shaped coaster on the worn coffee table. “You did. At least twice now. Besides, you don’t owe me any thanks. Any decent human being would have done the same thing.”
“I’m not sure that’s true. You literally put yourself between me and a maniac. And here I am treating you like a criminal.”
Sawyer smiled. “You’re right to be suspicious. You went through a terrible trauma. I still think you would’ve been fine without me, though. You’re resourceful. Scrappy, even.”
“I don’t think I would have. But I appreciate your confidence.” She leaned back again, tugging a flannel blanket around her. It smelled like the woods.
He was silent for a moment.
“Have you ever talked to anyone about what happened that night? Like really talked?” The armchair squeaked as he leaned back.
She bit her bottom lip. “Kind of. Just bits and pieces. Every time I try to tell the whole story, it’s like a wall goes up and my mind just shuts down. They—my family and friends—know the important parts.”
He nodded. “That’s pretty common after a trauma, according to my mom anyway. She’s a psychologist. You know, a few sessions with a therapist would probably be really helpful for you.”
Ugh, again with the therapy. She didn’t need someone poking around in her brain.
“That’s what everyone’s saying.” She shook her head and fixed her gaze on her sleeping dog.
“You can talk to me too. If you’re not ready for therapy.”
Claire smiled. “Thanks. It’s hard to talk to my friends about it. They’re been treating me like I’m made out of glass. Nicole cries every time I bring it up, and Mindy starts swearing and plotting revenge. And my mother—don’t even get me started.”
And Luke? He only wanted her to talk to his camera.
“Did you want to talk about why you’re here? And not at Mindy’s or Nicole’s? Or Luke’s?” Sawyer asked. Curiosity must have finally won out.
“Searching for more information to sell to the press?”
His eyebrows knit together.
“Sorry, that wasn’t fair.” Maybe he would have some valuable insight about the Luke situation. Her only other close male friend was Kyle, and she wasn’t about to discuss her relationship—or lack thereof—with Luke’s best friend.
She stood and walked behind the couch. This didn’t seem like a story to tell sitting down. “Mindy and Nicole were busy. And Luke and I kind of…imploded.”
Claire rehashed the story. Sawyer listened patiently as she paced around the room. Did all of this sound juvenile? When she finished, she turned to him hesitantly.
“I’m not in any position to comment on your relationship. But that was a shitty thing to do.”
“Thank you. It really was.” She leaned against the back of the overstuffed couch, vindicated. A yawn escaped that was so large, her entire body shuddered.
“You look exhausted. Want to hit the hay?”
“That would probably be best,” she said, an ocean of weariness seeming to weigh her to the spot.
Tomorrow would be a better day. It had to be.
“You can have my room,” he said, standing up. He rounded the couch and stood next to her. “I’m in the middle of re-painting the guest bedroom, and I don’t want you inhaling all those fumes.”
“Oh, no. You took me in. The couch is more than fine.” She stood up straight. Something fell at her feet. The paring knife, wrapped in one of her socks, had fallen out of her bra.
“Oops,” she said, and bent down to get it at the same time as Sawyer. They cracked heads like billiard balls and Claire crumpled to the floor.
“Oh, god, are you okay?” He leaned over her, one hand pressed over his face and the other planted on the floor by her head.
Her right eyebrow smarted where it had smacked off Sawyer’s broad forehead. The popcorn ceiling above her was begging to be scraped off. Sawyer’s biceps bulged above her. A tattoo she had never noticed snaked underneath the seam of his T-shirt. It was hard to tell from this angle, but it looked like the corner of a map.
“I’m fine.” She rose to her elbows and skittered backward like a crab. There was no reason for her to be eyeing Sawyer’s biceps. He was a friend. An acquaintance, even. “Sorry.”
Sawyer sat back on his haunches and pushed the knife sock closer to her.
“It’s yours, seriously. I just changed the sheets,” he said, gesturing back the hallway.
There was no point in arguing. “Thank you, Sawyer. You helped me even though you barely know me. I really hope you’re not a shady murderer because I feel like we could be really good friends.” She laid the paring knife down on an end table and took a step back.
He smiled. “You’re welcome. I hope you’re not a murderer either. The last time I had one in my bed things got out of hand.”
Claire laughed, the first time since the ill-fated dinner cruise.
“Good night,” she said, dragging her carry-on bag down the hall.
Sawyer’s room was the same as the rest of the house, a little bit crowded with knickknacks, but cozy as could be and unusually clean for a bachelor. A collection of vintage comic books lined a bookshelf, and a quick Google search revealed that the series of framed geographic prints on the wall were from a Samoan artist. Wood carvings in abstract shapes littered the flat surfaces in the room. It must have been a bitch to dust. She climbed into the massive bed, and her elbow knocked against yet another framed picture—the redhead from the living room. Who was she?
She crawled under the sheets—surprisingly high thread count for a guy—and sank into their coziness. For the first time since Luke’s betrayal, she felt safe. She stayed conscious long enough to plug her phone into the charger, and then sank into the blissful oblivion of sleep.