I cross Cassandra’s living room and flip the deadbolt on her front door.
Assuming she’s watching and not disobeying by leaving my safe room, I stop in front of the picture window and hold up my hand with my fingers spread, letting her know I’ll be back in five minutes.
Then I turn and head back toward the back of her house.
The man outside is most certainly dead.
My pretty little Butterfly shot him straight through the Adam’s apple.
I believe it was an accident, but it’s still a damn good shot.
Even though I should be leaving, I move into the kitchen. There’s something in here for me.
On the counter, next to the stove with the tray of burned cookies, is a Post-it note. Just like all the other ones stacked in my nightstand. And I know she was going to give it to me.
I read the words.
Charred Sweet Corn Cookies.
“Ah, Christ.” I shake my head. “Why, Butterfly?”
I nudge one, and it slides across the pan. At least they aren’t stuck.
It feels dry, and when I pick it up, little pieces fall off. But I’ll take my cookies crumbly over wet, like the last batch.
Opening wide, I shove the whole thing into my mouth.
My throat closes involuntarily, the intense campfire taste overwhelming my senses. But I chew.
Needing a little help, I step to the sink and turn on the tap. I bend and put my mouth under the stream and gulp some water.
Then I shove another whole cookie into my mouth.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Not wanting to dirty one of Cassandra’s containers, and not willing to leave them behind, I stack the cookies to make them easy to carry.
I can hold eight in my hand, but she made a full dozen.
I work to swallow the burned corn, then I cram two more cookies in.
I’ve tasted Cassandra at the source. I don’t need to settle for her awful baking anymore. But that doesn’t matter. If anyone so much as thought about eating what she made for me, I’d slice their stomach out of their body.
I duck my mouth back under the faucet.
The water helps to dissolve the mashed-up cookies in my mouth, and I’m finally able to get them down.
With my stack of eight cookies in one hand, I stride back to the front door and scoop up a pair of Cassandra’s tennis shoes. It’s her favorite pair. The ones she always wears when she’s leaving the house for errands, so I know they’re comfortable.
I hesitate for a split second as I consider bringing them to my nose, but then I remember that she might be watching through the window, so I shove them under my arm instead.
I’ve already shown her too much of my hand with the whole surveillance thing. I don’t need to add shoe sniffer to the list.
Flipping off the backyard light, I exit out the back door.
Not having camera angles in her backyard was clearly a fucking rookie mistake, but I utilize that now so Cassandra can’t see me use my own set of keys to lock up her house.
Though, again, the fact that she’s currently sitting in my safe room, looking at all the live feeds I have of her house, has probably tipped her off to the fact that I’ve invaded her privacy.
Are you obsessed with me?
My feet are silent in the grass as I circle around the back of her house in complete darkness, having memorized every inch of her property.
Yeah, Cassandra Lynn Cantrell. I’m obsessed with you.
Getting to her driveway, I jog the distance to my house.
When I first checked out what happened, I circled through the woods. Because I needed to know if the man was alone or if he was part of a force trying to hit my location—and Cassandra just happened to hear the wrong thing at the wrong time.
But since it appears as though the man was by himself, now it’s about speed. Because I doubt this is about Cassandra. I’m certain this man was coming to confirm my location.
I jump up the steps to my front door and use my free hand to unlock it.
Once inside, I go straight to the kitchen.
It takes me seconds to snag a Ziploc bag and shove the cookies in, then cross the house to my room, put the Post-it on the stack with the others, pull two backpacks out of my closet, shove the cookies into one, then head back downstairs.
