The Edge

Chapter 5

"Are you hurt?"

I must be staring blankly, because Wilder snaps irritably, "I'm asking if you're alright, woman. Speak."

He hasn't bothered to get back on his feet and is simply glowering at me, inquiring about my wellbeing. In which case, it seems unlikely that he's trying to kill me. I eye him cautiously, just in case he has any tricks up his sleeve. He returns my stare with a scowl, but doesn't launch another attack. I reluctantly turn my attention to my torn hands and knees. My skin feels warm and sticky with blood. Shards of rock and twigs are wedged into my wounds. I consider calling for help and hoping the boy I met on the trail hears me.

"I'm bleeding," I grumble instead. "And my clothes are ruined. Blood doesn't come out easily." I hesitate before adding scathingly, "You would know, Wilder."

An expression of alarm flickers across his face and is gone again in an instant. "Clever," he snarls disdainfully and I'm suddenly ashamed of myself. He finally climbs to his feet and rubs his shoulder, wincing and inhaling sharply. He seems to be in a similar state as myself, scuffed and blood-spattered. I'm not sure what to make of this turn of events, but I scramble to get up before I can be caught unawares again.

"What were you doing?" I demand, hearing a pathetic tremor in my voice. My body is shaking from adrenaline and endorphins.

"I was jogging," he says shortly. "Didn't see you there."

"The hell you were..."

He's certainly not dressed for it, sporting dark jeans, boots and a camo shirt. The cap he'd been wearing lies caught in the brush a few steps away. It's an odd look for the guy; his pastiness betrays an obvious aversion to the outdoors. What is he trying to do, disguise himself as a member of the local hillbilly populace?

"Of course not," he spits out. "How could I forget? I am incapable of engaging in or enjoying normal human activities. I must be up to no good." He reminds me of Sloane indeed.

He suddenly diverts his attention from me, patting his pockets frantically. Whatever he's searching for, he spots it in the grass a few feet away and retrieves it eagerly before I can get a good look. I take the opportunity to scan the area around me, wondering what I can use as a weapon if it comes to that. I snatch up a rock, hoping I can strike hard enough to do some damage.

"What are you doing at the crime scene?" I ask. "It took me, let's see, all of two seconds to recognize you even in that ridiculous getup. How stupid can you possibly get?"

He sees the rock in my hand and snorts. "I don't see what business is it of yours. You don't appear to have a badge, so where do you get off questioning me?" He scrutinizes me, searching for clues to my identity. "Have we met?" he demands. "You ought to explain what you're doing here. Stalking me? Gawking? Someone's been ignoring the crime scene tape."

"We haven't met exactly, but I saw you picking up Sloane from school on Friday," I tell him.

"You're one of her 'school Nazis,'" he declares in distaste.

"Only the library Nazi, Herr Wilder."

He grows silent for a moment, his eyes narrowing. "Then you're the one who was trying to give her advice about my...situation?" he wants to know at last. "You're the daughter of some detective, right? Sullivan."

Seems as though Sloane was definitely paying attention.

"Sloane seemed to need a sympathetic ear, and I'm not one to judge a person's guilt before the facts are in," I say. "I might have given her some suggestions to pass on to you. Of course, that was before I saw you barreling through the woods, fleeing a crime scene. Which is, by the way, extremely shady behavior."