“That reminds me, I brought you back a souvenir.” My shoulders tense. Rafe disappears from view, and when he approaches the back of the sofa and drops a small box onto my lap, I stare down at it. And then I scream. I jump up, roll over the coffee table, and stagger toward the door. “You’re sick,” I choke out, stumbling backward. I’ve seen this type of shit in films. A horse’s head in a bed. A skull on a bookshelf. A fucking finger in a ring box.
