Page 78 of Death Rydes Shotgun

Breathless, a sort of levity fills my chest as I step up to the driver’s side window, peering inside at the clean white leather interior, the immaculate dashboard, the scent of expensive cologne lingering around the frame.

Pompous little bastard.

Reaching down to the pocket of my hoodie, I take out my double-bladed knife—the blade Harmony left me with after I gutted the masked freak on the porch, and she took back her hunting knife.

The steel catches the faint amber glow of the car’s hazard lights.

I press the razor-sharp point firmly against the polished paintwork of the front passenger fender.

The screech of paint peeling gets swallowed by the roar of the rain.

I drag the blade hard across the side of the nine-plus-million-dollar car, the sound of metal tearing metal echoing through the quiet night like a dying rabbit.

I walk the length of the vehicle, carving a deep, jagged, ruinous line all the way from the front passenger door to the very edge of the trunk, exposing the bare, ruined steel underneath.

Satisfied with my mark, I close the blade, tuck it to my side and step into the pitch-black woods, following the freshly broken branches and muddy footprints where they entered.

Moving through the dark forest is second nature to me. I move like a phantom, my heavy boots sinking into the damp moss, dodging low-hanging pine branches without making a single sound.

The scent of wet pine, ozone, and crushed leaves fills my nostrils as I close the distance between us.

It doesn’t take long.

Up ahead, the faint, soft glow of a flashlight beam from a cell phone cuts through the thick fog, and the low murmur of voices drifts through the trees.

I come to a halt, pressing my back flat against the rough, damp bark of a massive moss covered oak tree just ten feet away from them.

I hold my breath, my eyes narrowing as I peer around the trunk to watch them.

The stranger holds his phone, pointing the beam of light toward the ground, while Harmony stands beside him, her arms wrapped tightly around her wet sweater. But as I listen, a cold spike of disbelief hits my chest.

She isn’t weeping. She isn’t trembling with grief over Noah.

Harmony lets out a soft, breathy laugh—a sound so jarring in the middle of this dark, horrific night that it makes my pulse spike with instant, violent irritation.

She told me she wanted to come here to thank Noah. To remember the night that changed her life, and made her the person she is.

Instead, she’s reminiscing about high school of all things.

She’s talking about the past, talking about local drama, and laughing about Blaire fucking Middleton. She has the audacity to share lighthearted, intimate memories of her teenage years with this random guy—things she never shared with me.

Even when I had her pinned against the floorboards, even after we were intimate in the rot of that barn, she kept her defenses locked tight, giving me nothing but bites of venom and bitter defiance.

Yet here she is, giving this worthless stranger her laughter, her memories, and her warmth.

My fingers crush around the hilt of my knife. The alloy grip groans under my strength, my knuckles turning bone-white.

Adrenaline spikes hot and heavy through my veins, screaming at me to strike. Every instinct I possess aches to burst out from behind this tree, drive four inches of heavy steel straight into this guy’s throat, and watch the warmth leave his eyes while Harmony screams in horror.

My muscles tense, my weight shifting forward onto the balls of my feet, ready to spring.

One step. One strike. Red on the moss.

Just as I’m about to make my move and paint the tree bark and Harmony with his blood, she stops talking.

She turns on her heel, her flashlight beam sweeping further into the blackness of the woods, and begins walking again.

“Hey, Harmony. Where are you going?” The stranger follows right behind her.