Elizabeth stood in the entrance of Sawyer’s house surrounded by the books and other items she had dropped moments before. The initial dread that had overcome her when she heard someone else there and recognised the smell of blood had dissipated to the practical thinking survival mode that had kicked in for the first time when she had been attacked seven years ago.
Time almost froze as the facts rolled through her mind all at once tangled together; she picked out each strand, trying to figure out which were the most relevant and plan what to do in a matter of seconds.
It smelled of blood, but Sawyer was definitely not there – and if he was there would not have been enough time for that much blood to smell so strongly even to her.
They had used his first name. They weren’t angry or aggres
