Chapter 4: Blood and Betrayal

Marcus paid me a hundred bucks to shut up. I zipped my mouth and tried not to roll my eyes as I pocketed the crisp bill.

At dinner, I flicked a peanut shell at him, catching the glow of the fire pit behind the motel. The night sky was wide and scattered with stars, the kind you only see out here.

He opened his eyes and looked at me. "Eat."

I picked up a baked potato from the fire. The skin was crisp and smoky, just like my granddad used to make on camping trips.

In the dark, sparks flew, my breath fogging in the chill as I tossed the potato, sparks arcing toward Marcus.

Suddenly, the snap of a twig, the sudden rush of cold air—and then, thud. Someone hit the ground hard.

I grabbed an arrow from my pack, reflexes honed by hunting trips and summer archery camps. In a split second, I heard the arrow hit flesh.

Blood splattered across Marcus’s face, the red vivid against his pale skin. He blinked—surprised, but steady.

Marcus, dressed in blue, stood in the night, his striking features smeared with blood. He looked like a painting gone wrong, a ghost story in the flesh.

I couldn’t help but whistle at him. "Not your color, Carter," I teased, though my voice shook.

Marcus pulled out a handkerchief, wiped his face slow and steady, precise—like he’d done it before and knew how to keep his cool.

I walked over, yanked out my arrow, and looked at the body. The man wore black—no badge, no ID. Just another ghost in the night.

"Not an easy gig," I muttered. "This one was a pro, hiding in that tree for half an hour just to take you out. Only three days on the road and we’ve already got trouble. You really think we’ll make it to Savannah in one piece?" I kept my voice low, watching Marcus for any reaction.

Marcus tossed the bloody handkerchief into the fire. "I’ll pay more."

My hands shook as I yanked the arrow free. I wiped my palm on my jeans, trying to steady my breath.