She gripped the porcelain sink, trying to steady herself. Outside, the Caribbean night descended like a dark curtain, turning the restroom’s windows into mirrors that seemed to multiply the fluorescent lights endlessly. Like the endless loop of Brittany Freeman’s life that The Visitor forced into her head.
The last ferry to St. Felipe departed in twenty minutes, and she was still hiding, paralyzed by fear and indecision. Snippets of conversations in English, Portuguese, and island patois filtered under the door, along with the squeak of luggage wheels bumping across the tiled floor. Any minute now, she expected The Visitor to crash into the restroom and drag her back to the hell in that underground room.
But it hadn’t happened.
She’d sat frozen in the corner of the last stall for hours, too afraid to leave as ferries arrived and departed all day and into the evening. The harrowing memories of the previous two days ran through her mind.
The sickening crack of The Visitor’s skull. The blood staining the wall as his body slumped onto the twin bed. The maze of hallways that seemed to lead to nowhere. The small enclave with a steel ladder attached to the wall. Above it, a square steel section in the ceiling. A door to her freedom … or to recapture.
There wasn’t time to contemplate her options. The Visitor wasn’t dead. He would come after her. She had to be long gone by the time he did.
Clamoring up the ladder, she pushed the steel door open. The onyx sky blanketed the area in shadows. The suffocating stench of the landfill that hid her jungle prison was so thick she gagged. She chose a path through the jungle, running barefoot through undergrowth. Each step on thorns and over sharp rocks tore and ripped her feet. Her legs trembled as she reached the edge of the jungle next to an empty road, but the hope of freedom blossomed within. Keeping close to the trees, she ran for what felt like miles, ducking into the trees whenever headlights appeared until a shining beacon glowed in the distance.
The Seahorse Inn.
The sun rose as she limped into the small office, requesting a room. Her feet were bloody. Her clothes stiff with sweat. The putrid stench of the landfill clung to her skin, marking her as desperate, troubled, and possibly dangerous.
But the motel clerk, a West Indian man of indeterminable age with a rotund belly beneath a T-shirt straining to contain his girth, gave her a hearty greeting. He hadn’t blinked at her appearance or blatant lie of a name—Beyonce Carter. Just counted out her cash and handed over a key as he informed herthat a convenience store was a five-minute walk up the road. His gaze drifted to her dirt-caked bare feet.
“Thanks,” Britt muttered, smoothing the wild strands of her hair behind her ears. She turned toward the door, then pivoted back to the clerk with one last question. “Where am I?”
He hesitated, his eyes narrowing as he answered, “Little Turkey.”
Confusion must have registered on her face.
“St. Killian in the Palmchat Islands,” he added.
“Palmchat Islands,” she whispered. A smile emerged that she couldn’t hide.
A euphoric thrill skated along her skin as she hobbled to the motel room. She was much closer to home than she ever dreamed. Closer to knowing who she was.
The first glimpse of herself in the motel bathroom had shattered something inside her. Staring at the unrecognizable face brought her no comfort or peace. No triggered memories. It was a horror to look at herself and not know deep in her soul who she was. She’d sunk to the floor, overcome with disappointment, crying.
If she couldn’t remember her face, how could she trust any scant memories she thought were hers? The address in St. Felipe could be a figment of her imagination. Another disappointment waiting to blindside her and shatter the hope she had left. And if that was gone, what was left for her? What would become of her life? What point would there be in going on if she had no chance of reconnecting with the person she truly was?
A woman’s melodic island lilt filled the terminal, “Last call for the ten o’clock ferry, traveling to St. Luca, St. Mateo, St. Basil, and final stop in St. Felipe.”
Britt’s heart kicked against her chest.
Time to choose.
She could stay here on St. Killian, find somewhere to hide, wait until she was sure no one was following her, and then go to the police. Let the authorities help save her from The Visitor. The smart choice, maybe.
But The Visitor had access to detailed information from the FBI and PIIB about Titus Freeman’s murder. He might be law enforcement or have connections with cops and federal agents. One wrong phone call, and she could be back in his hands.
Her other option was even scarier—trusting herself and this insatiable need to return to St. Felipe. This resonating truth that she’d be safe when she got there. She found it hard to ignore, even with the chance that The Visitor could know about her connection to the island. He may have kidnapped her from there. Taking the ferry could be a huge risk. He might be waiting for her, expecting her to head for …
67 Nova Lane, St. Felipe, the Palmchat Islands.
The address burned in her mind, as familiar as breathing.
But was it real?
Her only certainty was that she couldn’t stay in this restroom forever.
Britt straightened, pulling the baseball cap low over her face. She hadn’t fought her way free, hadn’t left The Visitor bleeding on the bed, just to hide out in another kind of prison. That address had gotten her through a year of isolation and psychological torture. The beacon of hope she needed to keep fighting to be free of her captor.
If answers waited on St. Felipe, she had to know.
