Page 32 of Death Rydes Shotgun

He isn’t running. Or hiding. He’s just standing there, watching the chaos unfold with a horrifyingly calm demeanor.

Ryder slowly raises his head over the chaotic crowd and the bloodstained crime scene.

Our eyes lock.

The air between us turns to solid ice.

I watch him under the flickering orange light, my hands clenching into fists at my sides, fully aware that he’s the one responsible for this.

He left to slaughter Marcus while I was in the bathroom. Carved him open like an animal and left him on display for the entire town to see.

Ten

My Savior or My Ruin

RYDER

11:00 PM

Istand motionless in the dark, watching Harmony through the clearing.

The wind picks up, sweeping violently across the open field, whipping the dark curls of her hair into a wild frenzy around her face. The scent of ozone and petrichor rolls in over the trees, but it’s her glare I notice more than anything else.

It’s sharp, accusatory, and piercing right through the sea of screaming people separating us.

She looks from the gory remains of Marcus Knight pinned to the wooden beam straight back to me, every line of her body practically screaming that she’s sure of what I’ve done.

I smile at her across the distance. It isn’t a warm expression; it’s a slow, lethal baring of teeth.

Without giving a single fuck about the deputies frantically trying to corral the people or the hysterical crowd surging around the scene, I take a step toward her.

The moment I surge forward, Harmony’s body locks up. She takes a slow, deliberate step backward into the crowd, her gaze never leaving mine.

I tilt my head at her, watching her retreat. The vicious snarl on my face transforms into a genuine smile.

I love the chase.

I know exactly what’s happening in that sharp, calculating head of hers.

Right now, she has to fight her way through the bottlenecked crowd to reach the far side of the carnival parking lot before the police put the entire property on lockdown.

Once those barricades go up, no one gets out without being questioned. And I know for a fact the cops will look for me first—I was the last person seen having a violent, public confrontation with that dead asshole.

Instead of following her through the dense throng of panicked carnival-goers or sliding backward into the pitch-black shadows of the tree line, I take a shortcut, cutting through the dense brush and mud behind the livestock barns, keeping my movements silent and fast.

I know these fairgrounds better than the back of my own hand.

Like fog, I move through the dense forest, sprinting along the perimeter fence to reach her car before she can even make it past the main gates.

I hit the edge of the gravel parking lot just as Harmony exits the carnival turnstiles.

Even from fifty yards away, the strain in her spine is apparent. She’s walking briskly, her sweater pulled tight around her, constantly checking over her shoulder as she scans the dark paths behind her.

It’s the exact same frantic, watchful routine she pulled before ducking into the mirror maze.

Sirens wail in the distance, their shrieks growing deafeningly louder.

Suddenly, three more Blackwood Sheriff cruisers and an unmarked coroner’s van come barreling into the parking lot, gravel spraying everywhere as their red and blue lights cut through the night.