She flinches but nods, defeated.
I unlock the door and step onto the porch.
The bastard strides forward and stops short when confronted with me. A wall of half-naked, pissed-off Scotsman.
“Who the fuck are you?” he spits.
“Considering you’re yelling for someone called Hazel outside my house at three in the morning,” I say, “I think you should explain who the fuck you are first.”
His face darkens. “I’m looking for my lying bitch of a wife. She’s here, I know it.”
“Your wife?“ I repeat slowly. “No, it’s only me here, mate.”
“Liar. Her phone is here.” He stabs his finger into my chest. The urge to break it is feral. I straighten to my full height. “She’s in that cottage.”
“Phone?” I turn. “Give me a minute.”
Inside, I lock the door, then run upstairs to grab Katie’s phone from her bedside. She shrinks away, terrified. I stay silent. She lied, and I have no idea what to say. If I open my mouth now, I’ll explode. I can’t. So I bite down—hard—keeping the words buried.
Stepping back out onto the porch, I close the door behind me, placing a barrier between this maniac and the terrified woman inside. I’m furious with her, but hell, I need to protect her from whoever this dick is.
“This phone?” I ask. “I found it a few days ago. Not had any luck finding the owner.”
He eyes me suspiciously. “Well, I can take it now.”
He lunges for it.
“No,” I say calmly. “I’d rather go through the official channels. Hand it into the police. I’m military, you see, a stickler for the rules.”
He bristles but doesn’t argue.
“Where are you staying?”
“Oakpark B&B.” He throws a business card at me. “Call me if you see her.”
“What does she look like?”
“Her name is Hazel Edwards. Or her stupid pen name, Katie Clark. She’s fifty, well, almost. Fat, blonde, curly hair, and thick glasses. She’s a lying bitch, stole all my fucking money.”
Rage detonates in my chest, my jaw locking the words I want to say safely inside. I want to provoke him. But that won’t help, so I swallow it down. Barely.
“And what do you want me to tell her if I see her?”
He tugs his suit jacket straight. His chin lifting, nose pointing to the stars. “Tell her she’s on borrowed fucking time.”
He gets in his car and screeches away, the tires spitting gravel in his wake.
I go back inside to face the threat I didn’t see coming.
***
Katie
Knobscratcher’s current sports car charges off down that godforsaken drive, leaving only silence. I stay curled in a ball at the door, frozen. That voice, the terror, it all came rushing back. A return ticket to hell I didn’t book.
Lance steps back into the room. “He’s gone.”
His voice is quiet; his hurt blatant from here. There’s no hysteria, no dramatics, just silent disappointment. That’s worse.