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Patrick and Derek stiffen, then nod, accepting their part in all this.
I’m still in shock as I watch Angelo and his goon file out the front door. Tim is right behind them, chattering away about timing and business plans. Patrick and Derek are on their phones, probably trying to scrape up money with a few internet cons.
Now, my brain shouts.Leave now, while no one is looking.
Sweat beads my forehead and upper lip, and the cuts on my palms sting as I clench my fists. My eyes dart to the door, then back to the couch as I slowly back away. Every muscle in my body is trembling, and I can barely hear my thoughts over thethud-thud-thudof my poor heart.
I calculate how many steps it would take me to get to the back door. About fifteen. I can do that. I can make it out the back door.
Then what?
My feet are on the run before I can think it all the way through. I pivot on my right foot, then focus on the door with each step. My fingers wrap around the doorknob. I’m so close I can feel the cool night air blowing in through the crack under the door.
A hand clamps down on my shoulder, and I’m ripped backward, tripping on my feet and tumbling to the ground. I hit the floor so hard, the breath is knocked from my lungs.
I’m frozen in place, laying on my back, trying to gasp for air. Tim towers over me, his eyes narrowing in disgust.
“P-please…” I choke. “I’ll go. I’ll go and never come b-back. Just, please…”
An old kitchen towel floats into the periphery of my vision and before I have time to react, Patrick covers my nose and mouth. I try holding my breath, knowing there’s likely some chemical on the cloth, but I end up coughing and sucking in air. A sweet smell fills my nostrils, and I blink back tears.
The world blinks in and out of focus and then goes completely black.
CHAPTER TWO
ALISTER
Iclear away the last of the fallen branches, throwing them on top of the pile of debris from the storm last night. It’s only a little past eight in the morning, but I’ve been up for hours. A lighthouse keeper’s job is never finished.
Most lighthouses are purely aesthetic these days since ships have GPS, radar equipment, and other sophisticated nautical navigation tools. However, there are a few functioning lighthouses dotted along the coasts.
I’ve been on this rocky little island for six years now. Or is it seven? I don’t bother marking the years down, since I don’t want to remember what life was like before I came here.
My eyes slam shut, and I try to push away the darkness crawling out from the locked corners of my mind. The first few months here were hell. I came back from the military a broken shell of a man, inside and out. Damn left leg is scarred to hell, and hurts like a motherfucker when it rains, which is all the time.
I deserve the pain. I deserve to suffer for the way I failed my unit, and worse, my family.
My hands tighten into fists and I grit my teeth, tensing every muscle in my body as guilt crashes into me like a tidal wave. I hold my breath while drowning in dark regrets, only to surface again, gasping for air.
The breeze picks up, blowing through my wild hair and tangling the strands. I turn into the wind, facing the sea as I take a deep breath. The smell of salt, earth, and rain fills my lungs, and I’m grounded once more.
Opening my eyes, I survey the unrelenting water crashing against the rocks. Purple clouds gather in the distance, blocking out what little sunlight there is on this dismal, stormy morning. The muted color palette suits me just fine.
Continuing my walk around the perimeter, I force myself to focus on all the little repair projects that need to be done. Replacing some of the stones around the base of the lighthouse. A fresh coat of paint when we get a stretch of sunny days. The rickety stairs leading down to the shore needed replacing when I bought this island, but I haven’t bothered yet. No one visits, and I sure as hell try not to leave except for supply runs.
I’m not lonely, though. I like my solitude. Besides, this old lighthouse keeps me busy. If it’s not repairs and maintenance, it’s logging the weather patterns and doing daily reports to the Coast Guard.
This island is only large enough to hold a lighthouse and a few storage sheds, so I don’t get a lot of action. Still, when I bought this hunk of deserted land, I knew it was my responsibility to keep everything running. It’s good. It gives me purpose, which is something I was severely lacking when I got out of the military.
I shake my head and rub my eyes, hoping to stop the ever-looming pit of darkness from swallowing me whole. Not today. I have too much shit to do.
The storm last night was only a teaser for what’s to come in the next few days. According to the radar and weather reports, a more aggressive storm is headed this way. I still need to check on the sheds and make sure everything is tied down and locked up tight, then it’s back up to the top to clean the windows and lenses in preparation for tonight.
Taking another healing breath of the salty sea air, I run through the list of things to do before the next storm hits in a few hours. I’m about to turn away from the gray skies and choppy waves when something catches my eye.
I walk out on the rocky ledge that hangs over the shore to get a closer look. At first, all I see is a soggy pile of what appears to be black clothes, or perhaps a blanket. Strange, but not concerning. I get random shit on this shore all the time, being so close to New York and Massachusetts.
But then it moves.
