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At some point, still shaking, I’m dimly aware of him gathering me into his arms and carrying me into a waiting shower.
Where we do all of that all over again.
“You don’t haveto do that.”
But I’m grinning as he pulls me close and kisses my forehead.
“Yeah, I do. You want to stay here, or come with?”
“With, please,” I murmur quietly, smiling like an idiot as I lean up to capture his mouth with mine.
Fifteen minutes later, we’re skimming over the bay towards Cape Harbor. Where Jackson is hell-bent on buying the makings for more homemade ramen.
We moor at the far end of the dock, which, from experience and testing, we both now know is just out of sight of the dock offices. Which makes it a usual spot for a lingering last kiss before he becomes “Uncle Robbie”.
And that’s exactly what we do, until my lips are bruised with his. Then, a light snow just beginning to fall, we head up into the town with our disguises back on.
Jackson heads to the grocery store. I head to the hardware store, where, oddly, I seem to get the best cell service in town. Sure enough, as I step under the awning by the display window, my phone erupts with a series of texts and notifications.
Again? It’s been less than a day since I was just over here.
I frown as I quickly thumb through the messages and notifications. There’s a bunch from my mom, a bunch from June, and atonfrom what seems to be easily fifty numbers I don’t know.
My brow furrows. What?
A helicopter whirs overhead somewhere as I shake my head. And I’m about to tap June’s number, when something catches my eye. I turn, my gaze dragging from my phone to the display flatscreen TV inside the hardware store.
The one with a video playing of a birds-eye-view of a town.
I blink as a tingling sensation creeps coldly down my spine.
Not just any town.This town.
I look up, tensing as I realize the helicopter I just heard above me is literally the same one broadcasting Cape Harbor across live television.
Shit, was there an accident or something?
I’m about to walk inside the hardware store and ask Lyle behind the counter what’s going on, when the shot on the TV changes. A different aerial shot suddenly fills the screen.
One that makes me turn to stone as my heart drops.
Oh fuck.
It’s Jackson’s house, on the island, being filmed by a circling helicopter. My face goes white as I lurch into the hardware store. I don’t even respond when Lyle says hello, and I numbly fumble over to the flatscreen and reach for the volume on the side of it.
“And you can see here from our second chopper the very house where, allegedly, Mr. Havoc has been living for the last ten years. The bombshell article in Ignition Magazine goes on to allege that Mr. Havoc has been presenting himself under the alias Robert Johnson—presumably a musician’s nod to the late godfather of blues music.”
Oh my God.
Oh my fucking God.
“Holy shit,” Lyle suddenly walks up behind me as I stand there numbly staring at the TV. “Isn’t that your uncle’s place?”
“We’re trying to get a news team actually ON the island. And again, if you’re just tuning in, an explosive article in Ignition Magazine that just published online this morning alleges that this is the home of missing musician and rock icon Jackson Havoc.”
“But that’s Robbie’s place?” Lyle murmurs.
Holy fuck.
