IN THE LEAD up to my twenty-third birthday—a little less than two years after I’d run from the hospital and Clay—a new melancholy settled over me. In the time I’d been running, I’d found a way to stop the darkness I’d thought existed in me ruining my life. I’d accepted there was a part of me that would fight tooth and nail to survive, and as long as I remembered that, I was able to keep it under control. For however long I could avoid situations that endangered my life, I could restrain that monster within me.

I wasn’t inherently evil.

That didn’t stop me from longing for something more though.

Over the months, the desperation to see Clay again had built within me until it was a palpable presence in my heart. The encounter with Ethan, when I’d been so confident he was Clay, had been a significant catalyst in reigniting the desire within me. The embers had never died, instead of simmering away beneath the surface ready to burst to life at the merest thought of the one I wanted. Just like the last time I had been on my own, I discovered that the passage of the days didn’t ease the hurt that tangled itself through my body and burned me from inside out. Nor did it silence my memories.

Instead, visions of Clay gripped me tighter with each day that I spent alone. I longed for another opportunity to be with him. Images of his sweet caresses filled my dreams every night only to twist wickedly into nightmares of his hatred. More often than not, I woke shaking with skin so inflamed I was surprised I hadn’t burned down half the forests in the USA. I wanted so desperately to turn my dreams back into happy memories rather than the haunting specters they’d become, but I didn’t know how.

I was still as careful as ever, but I wasn’t sure that I wanted to be careful anymore. Despite everything that had happened between us, the temptation to stop and wait in one place overwhelmed me. It echoed through my body with a permanent vice-like grip on my heart. I was drawing ever closer to the point where I would have gladly given my life for just one more kiss. One more touch. I even spent hours debating with myself the likelihood that he would be willing to provide a monster that one dying wish before fulfilling his destiny.

The need to see Clay again, whatever the result, grew stronger by the day. Every time I closed my eyes, a voice whispered to me that it would be easier to give up and give in, making it that much harder to keep a safe distance between us.

All I’d need to do is stop for just one moment . . .

It was so easy to recall the warmth of his breath tickling along the length of my neck or the way his calloused hands grazed over my skin as they trailed tender paths across my body. During my waking hours, I could control the visions. I could relive the sensations and the emotions without fear of them working against me. The low, earthy tones of his voice as he’d held me tightly and whispered his devotion against my skin echoed in my mind. All of the things that haunted my dreams were mine to enjoy during waking hours.

As much as I longed for a reunion with the man I loved, I understood there was a likelihood that all that remained in him was the merciless hunter. I could stop and wait, giving in to the temptation for him to claim me one last time before my death, but it was just as likely that my dying vision would be of the hatred in his eyes. I wasn’t sure that I could bear that.

Any time the risky train of thought that increased my desire to stop fleeing from Clay’s pursuit came thundering along, I tried to halt it by forcing myself to look at the twisted red scar that circled my right wrist like a grim bracelet—a permanent reminder of the consequence of being caught.

That’s just a taste of what will happen if he finds you now.

The worst part of all was that the desire to see Clay again had increased around the same time his incessant hunting had faltered. In almost six months, there had been no hint of him following me, and I’d begun to wonder whether he’d given up on his hunt. Somehow the thought was a thousand times more painful than the idea of him being just a few steps behind me. His apparent apathy meant he no longer even cared enough about me to desire revenge or to want to hunt me. At least hate was a form of passion. I wasn’t sure I was equipped to handle his complacency.

My renewed longing for Clay, combined with the certainty that I meant nothing to him any longer, made me yearn for something more. I wanted to reconnect with the girl I’d been years earlier—to find the innocent child who’d left Charlotte after losing her father and would never have hurt anyone for her own benefit. To rediscover the belief I’d had when I left Aiden’s court that perhaps happiness was possible if only I were willing to find it. Most of all, I wanted a life with purpose and the promise of fulfillment.

I longed for Dad or for some connection to the past and eventually came to the decision that I had to go back to him. As if drawn by an invisible thread, I had little choice but to visit the one place I’d sworn I’d never return to.

With a vague recollection of a cemetery name written on a slip of paper left by Clay that I’d found, and subsequently burned, years earlier, I researched the possible places Dad might have been buried. With the information Clay had given me when he explained what he’d done for Dad, I convinced the receptionist to provide me with the plot number. Once I’d confirmed Dad’s plot was in the cemetery and had its number memorized, I couldn’t keep myself away any longer.

With no further hesitation, I picked a path from Biloxi, Mississippi, toward North Carolina. I slept under bridges, in forests, anywhere I could find that offered some protection from prying eyes and the Rain. There was something to be said about having a purpose again, even if that was just to say a proper goodbye to Dad.

By the time I arrived in Charlotte, three weeks later, my clothes were tattered, and I was filthy—even by my usually low standards. Because of the reason for my journey though, I had the forethought to stop and purchase a few new outfits along the way—I just wasn’t willing to wear any of them until I was almost ready to see Dad.

Taking the motel keycard from the clerk before he had the chance to leer at me again for the simple crime of being alone, female, and in need of accommodation, I headed along the darkened corridor to find my room. The motel I’d found was precisely the type I preferred to stay in: dark and damp with a focus on discretion. It was the type of establishment that tended to leave guests alone to do as they pleased. Sometimes the cleanliness of the rooms in such places left a lot to be desired, but it offered me a mattress and the chance to shower—two things I valued more with each month I spent living out of a small bag with next to nothing to my name.

The first thing I did was shower. Turning on the taps, I took the time to adjust the temperature until it was almost scorching. Even if it was only for a moment, I longed to feel the burn coming from the outside of my body. When I was satisfied the water was hot enough, I climbed under the stream and began cleaning away the weeks’ worth of filth and grime that seemed permanently fused onto my skin. In a useless attempt to sluice away years of painful regret, I stood under the shower and scrubbed my skin until it was almost as red raw as the scar on my wrist.

Out of a now long-ingrained habit, I checked the mirror for movement in my peripheral vision as I stepped out of the shower. Then I wrapped one of the thin towels around my body. After reassuring myself that I was definitely alone, I dressed in my best outfit. It was still just a combination of a hoodie and jeans but was the newest, cleanest set I owned. Finally ready, I prepared to say the farewell to my father that I should have said years ago.

Better late than never.

The walk from the motel to the cemetery only took thirty minutes, but each step lasted an eternity. When Clay and I were in Salem, he’d revealed a little about the aftermath of Dad’s death. He’d told me that although the Rain had initially taken Dad’s body, Clay had managed to intercept the transportation to the Rain headquarters and arrange a private burial. He’d even managed to ensure that the exact location was a secret that he’d revealed to no one except me.

Had I known all of that after Clay had left me alone in Charlotte, I would have visited Dad when I’d found the note wrapped around the magnolia flower near the warehouse.

Even though it was far away, a good hour on foot, I risked a wistful glance in the direction of the derelict building that housed some of my favorite memories.

“Stay on task,” I murmured. “You came back to see Dad, not to relive those memories.”

I followed the road toward the cemetery. When I arrived, I took a moment to orientate myself with the layout and then traced the paths to find my Dad’s plaque. It was surreal, but as I picked my way around the graves, I could sense Dad walking beside me.

My lips actually curled into a semi-smile, the first my face had worn in the longest time. Regardless of how stupid I’d thought the decision was when I made it, I was actually glad I’d returned.

It offered a renewed sense of strength and drive.

Finding the right row, I counted the sites to locate the one I needed but froze when I noticed something resting over the bronze plaque marking Dad’s grave. For anyone else, it would’ve been just three long-dead flowers and an innocuous white envelope slipped inside a plastic sleeve. For me, the sight of it was enough to send heat scorching across my arms and flames leaping into my fingertips. It wasn’t the letter itself that terrified me; it was the writing emblazoned across it.

One word.

A name.

My name.

Evie.

Next to the envelope with my nickname in Clay’s neat script were three wilted magnolias, long browned and dried. Just the sight of the handwriting took me back to high school, to notes passed between us in class and letters left in my books. The flowers were a reminder of Clay’s first approach in Charlotte when he’d had such an excellent reason for finding me—a reunion and a chance for love.

“They can’t still mean the same thing,” I said.

Can they?

It was impossible. And yet, the letters spelling out my name were written so neatly, with such care, it was almost easy to believe the note was from the Clay I used to know—the one who wanted me safe and happy above anything else. Only I wasn’t sure that man existed anymore. The last vision I had of him wasn’t one of a loving partner.

The letter appeared too recent to have been resting against the plaque since my father’s death four years earlier. The plastic coating should have at least shown some signs of aging if it had rested there for so long. And even though the flowers had wilted long ago, they hadn’t yet crumbled away to nothing. With my heart in my throat, I reached for the letter, lifting it carefully and cursing when the plastic shrunk away under my heated touch as my fingertips brushed across it.

It was impossible for me to even hold the letter in my hands. Not with the fear, and hope, running so rampant around my body and forcing heat through my limbs. To keep it safe for the moment, I shoved the envelope into my pocket. My fingers lingered on Dad’s plaque, but I couldn’t stop and say goodbye.

No, I needed to go. I had to go back to the motel and figure out what the hell the letter meant.

I stepped away from the grave and glanced around. The uneasy sensation of someone watching me brushed over my skin. Any harmony I’d found in my decision to find Dad was shattered by the discovery of the envelope. In a moment, the calming presence I’d experienced was swept away. It was almost as if Dad were trying to convince me to leave his side. What had initially been such a peaceful and serene place had grown menacing in an instant, and I wanted nothing more than to disappear from under the shadowy presence that lingered all around.

My eyes scanned the whole area carefully, wondering if Clay’s gaze could be following me as I backed away from Dad’s grave. Despite the yearning I’d had to stop and allow Clay to catch up with me, this new piece of evidence—the fact that he still knew me well enough to know I’d come to this place—reignited the fear I held over his constant hunt. It was a reminder of the knowledge that he possessed about me. I knew better than most that knowledge was power. Danger.

Chills ran down my spine as I spun on the spot. Nausea twisted my stomach, and I wasn’t able to concentrate on anything but getting away. A cloying sensation raced down my throat, and I grew confident that if I spun again, Clay would be right there—right behind me. I could practically feel his breath tickling over the back of my neck.

I started walking again, quickening my pace until I was all but sprinting back to the motel. Racing along the road, the feeling of a watchful gaze resting on me grew in intensity. It was almost enough to send me to my knees. I used the sensation instead to force my feet to move quicker still as I glanced around again. The sensation permeated through my body, sinking into my heart and cloaking me in a shroud of panic. Someone was following me, watching me, stalking my every move. Footsteps clicked along behind me, almost but not quite perfectly in step with mine.

My whole body clenched, and my heart beat so fast and hard I could feel it in my fingertips. Slowing my pace, I closed my eyes for a moment, letting heat flood through me so that I could defend myself.

Without giving any warning or a chance for him to back away, I stopped and twisted around to confront whoever it was. My breath left me in a rush when I saw nothing but an empty street stretching out in front of me.

I blew out a breath and shook my head. “You’re getting paranoid.”

Is it really paranoia if you know someone wants to kill you? The fact that the sunbird responded to my question was no surprise; she’d been doing it for a while. Although whether it was actually her voice or just me talking to myself in my head wasn’t always clear. Especially at times like this, when she sounded more like me than I did. It didn’t really matter though. Even if it was just a conversation with myself, it was still a conversation. Something I’d been sorely missing until she started to reply.

“Can we debate what is or isn’t paranoia when I’m back at the motel?”

I told you that you were going crazy. I mean, talking to yourself is definitely a sign of schizophrenia.

I knew the sunbird had a point, but I didn’t feel like arguing with her. “So is answering, but it doesn’t stop you.”

Touché.

On the way back to the motel, I stopped at least three times because of the sound of footsteps behind me. Each time, I turned around and found nothing but shadows moving through my peripheral vision.

I rubbed my hands together as my unease intensified through me and sent pinpricks of heat over my skin. Blowing a breath across my inflamed skin, I tried to calm myself. I had to do something to shake the dread that had taken up residence in my core or I was likely to set fire to the next thing I touched.

It’s just the letter and the flowers. They’ve put you on edge.

“You’re probably right.”

I know I am.

The thought spurred me on. I was as eager to get off the street and away from the menacing sensation stalking me on the street as I was to read the letter and get it out of my system. Reaching the motel, I took the stairs back to my room two at a time. Glancing around to ensure I was alone in the hallway, despite the noises coming from the rooms nearby, I pulled the letter from my pocket and risked a quick glance at my name.

“I just have to know what he’s said.”

It could say anything.

The sunbird was right. In my hands, I could be holding the information I’d been longing most to receive. The proof that against all the odds, he’d forgiven the unforgivable. Or it could be nothing. A relic from long ago, well preserved despite the passage of time.

A flood of relief flowed through me as I unlocked the door to my room. Soon I would be away from prying eyes and in relative safety. Then I’d have an answer to what the letter contained. Swallowing heavily as my pulse raced at the possibilities, I pushed the door open.

My heart plummeted to my heavy feet as I took in the changes to the room since I’d left it a little over an hour earlier. Everything that I’d had neatly packed into my backpack was scattered around the room; some items were torn and shredded.

Scrawled across one wall in black spray paint was the word “freak,” across another was “murderer.” Across the third was the same symbol that Louise had left on the wall before torturing me.

Not willing to risk being in the room a second longer than I needed to be, I reached for anything in arms-reach and shoved it back into my bag before turning and running away from the motel. As I raced back down the stairs, I checked from side to side to ensure that no one was following me.

Told you it wasn’t just paranoia.

“Not now,” I growled. “I need to concentrate on getting out of here.”

Do you think it’s him?

The thought was enough to slow me momentarily. What if it was Clay?

If it was, then the writing was on the wall. Literally. He still thought of me as a murderer and a freak.

“What if it wasn’t?” I asked aloud.

I didn’t know which would be worse. Either way, the combination of those words and that symbol screamed danger and death.

“Let’s go,” I murmured. “If it’s him,” which it probably is, “I can’t face him now.”

Honestly, I wasn’t sure I ever could.