Chapter 5
DANE
Three days of having Sloane Grady in my house and I'm ready to put a bullet through my own skull.
She argues about everything—the temperature, the food, the fact that I locked her in the cellar for her own protection.
She's got opinions on how I organize my spice cabinet, criticisms about my cooking, and a running commentary on my lack of social graces that would drive a monk to violence.
But I can't leave her alone. Not with whoever sent her still out there, watching, waiting for their next move. Which means when I need supplies from town, she's coming with me.
"This is unnecessary," she says from the passenger seat as we bounce down the gravel road toward town.
She's wearing my clothes—flannel shirt rolled at the sleeves, jeans cinched with a belt, boots two sizes too big.
Her auburn hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and without the slinky dress and drug-induced haze, she looks younger and healthier, annoyingly attractive in a girl-next-door way that I'm trying very hard not to notice.
"Your stealing my truck again would be unnecessary," I counter. "This is practical."
"I could've stayed at the cabin. I'm not going to run. Where would I go? I'd get lost on this mountain."
I glance at her out of the corner of my eye. "You stole my truck the first chance you got. Forgive me if I don't trust you to sit still for two hours."
She crosses her arms, staring out the window. "That was different. I thought you were going to kill me."
"And now?"
"Now I think you're paranoid and controlling, but probably not actively trying to murder me." She pauses. "Probably."
The town materializes around us and I pull into the IGA parking lot and kill the engine. The grocery store is the only one for thirty miles, a squat building with faded siding and a hand-painted sign that's been there since the seventies.
At some point, we'll have to go into Dunkirk to get Sloane some clothing, but for now, what I have is all I have. She’s probably embarrassed about being seen wearing that get up, but it's better than the risk of her being found at my cabin by the men who are hunting me while I’m not around to protect her.
"Remember," I say as we climb out, "you're Sarah, my sister. You're visiting from out of town."
"I know the story." Her tone is acid. "Though I don't appreciate being called mentally unstable to half the town."
"Would you prefer I let them arrest you for grand theft auto?" I lift an eyebrow at her and she slams the truck door as she glares.
She stalks toward the entrance while I grab a cart and follow, already regretting this decision.
Inside, the IGA is exactly what you'd expect—narrow aisles, limited selection, prices higher than they should be because there's no competition.
I head straight for the meat section while Sloane drifts toward produce, and for five minutes we shop in blissful silence, mostly because she's at the opposite end of the tiny store, though I do hear her complaining about the price of fresh kale.
Then she appears at my cart, staring at the contents with undisguised horror.
"What is that?" She points at the steaks I've selected.
"Ribeye. On sale."
"That's not steak, that's a heart attack waiting to happen. Look at the marbling." She picks up the package between two pinched fingers and scowls at me. "Do you have any idea what this will do to your arteries?"
"Make them happy?" I take the package back and drop it in the cart. "I'm not asking for your medical opinion on my groceries."
"Well, you're getting it anyway." She starts pulling items from my cart—bacon, butter, a bag of russet potatoes. "You eat worse than a trucker. When's the last time you had a vegetable that wasn't fried?"
"Last week. Had corn with my steak."
"Corn doesn't count," she barks and starts loading my cart with produce, tossing in kale and Brussels sprouts and other green things I wouldn't feed to livestock. "You need fiber, vitamins, antioxidants. Your diet's actively trying to kill you."
"My diet is fine. Your interference is what's going to kill me."
"Oh, please." She holds up a package of ground beef. "This has more fat content than protein. You might as well inject lard directly into your veins."
"Give me that." I snatch it back, returning it to the cart. "I've eaten this way for forty years and I'm still here."
"Forty years of clogged arteries and high cholesterol. Congratulations." She grabs a bag of quinoa and waves it at me. "Try this instead. Whole grains, complete protein, won't destroy your cardiovascular system."
"I don't even know what that is."
"It's real food. Not whatever processed garbage you've been surviving on."
We're drawing attention now. A woman in the next aisle is watching us with barely concealed amusement and an older man by the deli counter is grinning. Approaching from the back of the store, moving like she's stalking prey, is Ellie Hooper.
Blonde hair pulled into a messy bun, green eyes bright with curiosity, petite frame clad in a flour-dusted apron over jeans and a T-shirt. She owns the diner, and knows everyone's business, and has been trying to crack my defenses since I moved here.
"Well, well." Her voice carries across the aisle.
"Mr. Strouse, I didn't know you had company.
" Ellie's tone is suggestive, like she thinks I'm sleeping with this veggie-pusher, which couldn’t be farther from the truth.
Yeah, she's good looking, but I'll never date a woman who stands between me and my meat and potatoes.
I force what might pass for a smile as I say, "Ellie, this is my sister, Sarah. She's visiting for a few weeks."
Ellie's gaze sweeps over Sloane, assessing her in a few blinks of an eye.
"Sister? You never mentioned a sister." Then she meets my gaze and I see that snarky gossip hound come out.
If you want news to travel fast, just tell Ms. Hooper.
She knows every woman in town and her connection is like lightning.
"We're not close," Sloane says before I can respond. "Different fathers. He got all the charm and social skills."
Ellie laughs, delighted. "I like her already. How long are you staying, Sarah?"
"Not long," I interject.
"Too long," Sloane says simultaneously.
Ellie's grin widens. "Sibling rivalry? I heard about the medication situation. Sheriff Carver mentioned you had a rough night at the station over the weekend."
Sloane's expression darkens but she keeps her mouth shut as the color drains from her face. I appreciate the restraint she shows, though I've already explained to her what happens if word gets out that she was sent here by someone in the city I came from. We'll never escape that heat.
"She's doing better now," I say carefully. "Just needed some time to adjust."
"Well, that's good to hear." Ellie leans against her cart, getting comfortable. "You know, we're having our annual Halloween bash at the diner next Friday. Adults only, costume contest, apple bobbing, the whole deal. You should both come."
"We're not interested—" I start.
"Oh my God, that sounds like a blast," Sloane cuts in, and I can hear the spite in her voice. "That sounds fantastic. We'll definitely be there."
I turn to stare at her. "No, we won't."
"Yes, we will." She smiles at Ellie, all sweetness and light. "My brother here never goes out or socializes. It'll be good for him to interact with actual human beings for once."
"It's settled, then." Ellie claps her hands together. "I'll put you both down for the costume contest. Prizes for best individual and best couple."
"We're not a couple," I say through gritted teeth. "We're siblings."
"Even better—sibling costumes are adorable." She's already backing away, sensing victory. "See you both Friday night. Seven o'clock sharp."
She disappears down the aisle before I can argue further, and I round on Sloane, who's examining a package of organic chicken with entirely too much satisfaction.
"What the hell was that?" I hiss, trying to keep my voice low. Last thing I want is to offend the town gossip by acting like a curmudgeon.
"That was me accepting a social invitation. You should try it sometime." She drops the chicken in the cart. "Besides, it'll be fun. When's the last time you went to a party?"
"I don't do parties."
"Clearly. You don't do anything except brood in your cabin and threaten people." She moves past me toward the dairy section. "A few hours of normalcy won't kill you."
"Someone out there is actively trying to kill us both." I follow behind her but the cart makes it awkward. "This isn't the time for costume parties."
"Or it's exactly the time. If we're visible, social, acting normal, maybe whoever's watching will think we don't know we're targets." She grabs milk—skim, because apparently, I'm not allowed to have whole milk either. "You said yourself that they're playing games. Let's play back."
The logic is sound, which only irritates me more. "I'll think about it."
"You'll agree to it, or I'll tell Ellie the truth about who you really are." She says it casually, inspecting yogurt labels, but the threat is clear.
"You wouldn't."
"Try me." She meets my eyes, and there's steel there. "I'm done being locked in cellars and dragged around town with fake diagnoses. You want my cooperation? Start treating me as an equal, not a prisoner."
We're at an impasse. I could force the issue, but she'd fight me every step, and drawing more attention is the last thing I need.
"Fine. We'll go to the damn party."
"Wonderful." Her smile is victorious. "Now put back the processed meat and get the organic chicken. Your arteries will thank me."
I want to tell her to mind her own business and let me eat what I want, but the woman in the next aisle is still watching, and making a scene over poultry seems beneath even my standards.
So I switch the packages and keep moving.