Page 22 of Dearly Departed

“Mr. Harris.” Some of Jacob’s weight lifts off me, but a breath comes with it, like it’s costing him a lot to stand up straight. “I am deeply sorry about Beth, and⁠—”

Raymond laughs again, and it’s even worse. “Where do you get off saying her name?”

“—you shouldn’t have lost her. You didn’t deserve to lose her, and you don’t deserve to live without her. I know there’s nothing I can say to lessen your grief⁠—”

“So shut the fuck up.

“—but please. There’s no need to hurt Catherine. She didn’t have anything to do with us. Let her go, and you can do whatever you want with me.”

I grab Jacob’s hand and squeeze it hard. Hopefully he knows I mean you are not trading yourself to get murdered just so I can try to survive by myself with one steak knife and one butter knife and some snack mix.

“Let her go?” Raymond scoffs. “That wouldn’t do me any good, would it? Because then I wouldn’t get to make you watch.”

“Please,” Jacob says. “Mr. Harris⁠—”

Raymond lunges with a roar. Empty hands—his gun could still be in the cockpit, or in his pocket—but his expression is twisted and terrible under the blood. Killing us bare-handed wasn’t his first plan. It’s good enough for him now.

Jacob stumbles back, pulling me with him, and I stick my hand into my bag.

Knife. Knife. Where is the steak knife?

My fingers slip past thing after thing after thing, none of them the steak knife, and finally close around a bottle.

There’s no time left, so I yank it out, wrench the cap off with my teeth, and spray a generous stream of Penhaligon’s Lily of the Valley directly into Raymond Harris’s eyes.

“Fuck!” He staggers back, clawing at his eyes, and I bend down and scrape together a handful of dirt. Some of it must hit the target, because he swears even louder and lurches onto the beach.

We turn around and run.

8

JACOB

This island has zero redeeming qualities.

It’s possible it would have redeeming qualities if running itself had any redeeming qualities. I don’t mind a sturdy treadmill in a temperature-controlled gym. I don’t even mind the occasional jog outdoors on a paved trail.

I do not like tearing through the wilderness in Italian leather shoes.

Catherine holds my hand and we run over a wretchedly rocky beach interspersed with sand. Occasionally, thick, gnarly roots from the forest protrude toward the waves. The plane disappears from view before we’ve gone far.

I know we haven’t gone a great distance, but my legs feel leaden and my lungs burn. The pain in my head throbs dully with every step. All of my bones ache. The scratches on my sides must’ve fully split open, because they feel remarkably similar to the fresh cut on my forehead.

It’s like running in a nightmare. Every cell in my body wants to slow down, or sit down, or lie down and accept my death, but those same cells pulse with a fierce thirst for life.

Or maybe they just want water. Or food. I don’t know what they want, but I know they’re very fucking unlikely to get it on this island.

I’m assuming it’s an island. I’m assuming Raymond Harris wouldn’t take us anywhere that could be considered mainland and thus inhabited by people who might interfere with his murder plot. The beach curves in a tight circle, which might mean it’s a very small island.

On the other hand⁠—

On the other hand, it could mean precisely nothing.

A rock presses into the bottom of my foot through my shoe. I will level this place when we get out of here. I will buy this park and turn it into a rundown strip mall. Once I find Catherine, I’ll⁠—

But Catherine’s hand is in mine. She hasn’t run away from the SUV. I’m not searching for her on a path through the woods.

We’re sprinting away from certain death in the form of deranged pilot Raymond Harris.