“You worry what? I’m going to get fed up and walk out? Jesus, Pam. If you can even think that, I’m doing something wrong.”

“It’s just…the last couple of weeks. You’ve seemed…stressed.”

I’d hugged her and told her it was just a tough job—demanding client—and everything was fine.

I hated lying to her. Hated it. Sucked at it, too. But I’d been careful, setting up my alibi, going to the shop and doing some work before slipping out the back and riding my old bicycle the ten miles to the forest.

I finally reached the spot. I knew she was here—the third victim. I’d come out two days ago and found her hidden under a tree fall. I didn’t check again. Didn’t ever want to see that again. My stomach lurched, and I chewed another mint, wishing I’d brought antacids instead.

I should take this to the police. Take the file and my own research and anonymously submit it.

But that wouldn’t help Eden.

Shit, did I really think this could help Eden?

I swallowed and hunkered down to wait. Twice I thought I heard a sound and jumped back into the shadows. But no one came. The third time, I almost didn’t bother, chalking it up to paranoia. Then the sound turned into the clomping of boots.

A moment later, Kirkman appeared. Sweat poured off him, and he stank of booze. He swayed as he walked, grabbing trees for support.

“Shouldn’t be out here,” Kirkman muttered. “Shouldn’t, shouldn’t, shouldn’t.”

I stifled a humorless laugh. Yeah, you and me both, asshole.

Kirkman walked straight to the tree fall. He took a deep breath, shaking so hard I could see it. Then he pulled back a branch, and when he exhaled, it was almost orgasmic, and I pulled the hunting knife from its sheath without even realizing what I was doing, rage filling me, a rage that wasn’t hot and blind but cold and focused, like nothing I’d ever felt before.

Up until this moment, I’d made excuses for him. Not for the murders—nothing could excuse those horrors. But I’d told myself it wasn’t him. Despite all the evidence, it wasn’t Kirkman, but just some fae trick.

I’d heard enough stories growing up to understand that fae weren’t innocent little creatures with wings and pixie dust. They were amoral, unethical, cruel, sometimes even what we’d call evil in their complete disregard for others. This might be some fae’s idea of a joke—promise me the one thing I wanted most and force me to kill an innocent man.

Even when Kirkman pulled back the branch, I still hoped. I knew him. Not well. Not at all well. But the idea that I could have met and worked alongside a monster, might have shown him pictures of Pam, of Eden…