Murder_ A Sinful Secrets Romance - Ella James Page 0,2

I found this. This—person. I swear it is! A person in some kind of top-notch camo—or a ghost. I can only see the back and maybe a bent head, but it totally looks like a person.

…A person-like blur.

Would I swear on it in court?

Well, no.

Can I be one-hundred percent sure where the person’s outline ends and the thick woods begin again? Not exactly. But it seems like something. Seriously it does.

And if it is something, I need to know. If it’s someone, I have to be cautious. With all the ruckus going on around here lately, it could be anything. Maybe evil Haywood has some asshole spying on me. Maybe there’s a serial killer in the area, one who gets off on victimizing girls with disabilities. The likelihood he would have an invisibility cloak seems slim, but you never know. It could be really good camouflage. They make some patterns that blend in really well with the woods inside the Smoky Mountain National Forest. My property backs right up to it.

I tilt my head to the side, as if that will help my eyes focus. Then I let out a long sigh, rewind and view the footage one last time, and click the red button on the upper left-hand corner of my Safari window.

The computer’s clock says it’s 5:15 p.m., which means I need to get moving.

I let out my version of a bear moan. Living alone, I’m free to be as dramatic as I want on any given day. With no pets or people, just me here in the forest and the bears—various distances away from me, in the enclosure behind the cabin—it’s not like my shouting, cursing, singing, dancing, or moaning is going to upset anyone. The house next door is empty. That evil bastard Haywood.

I’ve still got to get a shower, but first…

I hustle from my office into the living room, then through the half-wall opening between den to kitchen. There, inside the cabinet underneath my big, trough-style sink, I keep a bottle of Emile Pernot “Vieux Pontarlier” Absinthe for just such an occasion as this.

I twist the top off, bring the bottle to my lips, and take the smallest of swigs. The warm, licorice taste coats my throat, leaving behind a tang of bitterness as I shut my mouth. I imagine I feel more relaxed as I put the bottle back under the sink.

Absinthe aficionados would be horrified by my bastardization of their fancy drink, but whatever. Again—no one here but me.

I strip out of my workout clothes as I march toward my bedroom, set my iPhone in the Bose sound system on my dresser, grab the remote, and blast some Florence + The Machine as I quickly scrub my body, wash my hair, and dry it, tilting my head upside down and flinging my long, copper locks around like a ’70s rock star. I swipe deodorant underneath my underarms twice, because I know I’ll sweat tonight, then apply a faintly blue eyeliner that makes my brown eyes pop, followed by my signature red lipstick. I don’t care what anybody says about redheads and the color red. It’s bullshit. I can rock the red.

My phone starts playing witchy-sounding music—the theme song from the Harry Potter movies—as I shimmy into hunter green leggings, but I can’t talk to my bestie Jamie and get ready, so I decide I’ll call her from the car. After a parting eyebrow arch into the mirror, I drift into my room and spend a second staring longingly at a an oversized gray hoodie picturing the cover of one of my favorite books, My Antonia, before tossing it aside and grabbing a boring, cream sweater that hits me about mid-thigh. I have these ridiculously awesome Prada combat boots that would breathe some life into this bleh, but I don’t want to draw that kind of attention tonight, so I settle on a pair of brown Tory Burch riding boots that would only look expensive to the most discerning eye.

I shake my head around a few more times, letting my armpit-length auburn waves cascade around my face, before I fasten my hair into a casual French braid. Then I grab my backpack purse, my adorable bear keychain, and my phone out of the Bose dock, and sprint toward the garage door: a trek that takes me through the office that adjoins my room, then the den—where the cabin’s front door is—through the kitchen, and into the laundry room beside the breakfast nook. The place