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CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The hill, bathed in the muted light of the afternoon sun, offered a sweeping view of the island. From this vantage point, the killer could see for miles everything laid out like a map. The uneven terrain, the weaving trails, the secluded spots - the island was familiar, a place where every nook and cranny held a memory, a story.
Behind the killer, some distance away, nestled almost protectively amongst a hedgerow and some trees, sat Old Miller's Cottage. Even from this distance, the cottage emanated a sense of timelessness, a relic from the past that had witnessed generations come and go. Smoke rose from its chimney, the tendrils lazily making their way to the sky.
The killer noticed the figures outside the cottage, recognizing the unmistakable form of McGregor coming out. And then, there were the others – outsiders. A twitch of irritation flickered across the killer’s features, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared. Why were they there? Had they figured out anything? The killer dismissed the thought almost instantly. After all, they were only visitors on this island, mere interlopers. They didn't understand its rhythms, its secrets. He could hide well, and if he ever had to do something about them, they would never see him coming.
However, this was not a time for reflection or pondering. There was work to be done, another deed needed to further thegood workhe took pride in.Every second counted, and the killer knew that moments of hesitation could be fatal.
Moving stealthily through the tall grass, the killer felt a certain exhilaration, much like a predator stalking its prey. The grass rustled softly underfoot, bending and swaying, trying to reclaim its space as the killer passed. There was a familiarity to this dance, a ritual that the killer had come to relish. The sensation of being unseen, undetected, was intoxicating.
Reaching the cliffside trail, the killer paused, breathing in the salty air. The sea below crashed against the rocks, sending sprays of mist up to the path. The roar of the waves was both calming and invigorating, a reminder of the raw power of nature.
But the trail wasn't just a pathway. It was an invitation, a winding ribbon that led to numerous secluded spots, hidden alcoves, and precipices. It was a trail that held memories of past hunts, of moments where the killer had been both the pursuer and, in some twisted sense, the savior. For in the killer’s mind, every act was a salvation, a release for the victim and for the island. They would never have to tolerate each other again.
Glancing once more towards the distant cottage, the killer's lips curled into a faint, sinister smile. The outsiders might be probing, asking questions, but they were still far from the truth. And by the time they even came close, the killer would be long gone, melted into the shadows, leaving behind nothing but a trail of chaos and unanswered questions.
Taking a deep breath, the killer began to move again, following the trail, every step echoing the rhythm of a dark heartbeat. Another victim awaited, and the dance of death would soon begin once more.
The path wove upwards, the gradient becoming steeper as the killer moved further along it. The sound of the waves crashing below seemed distant now, replaced by the whipping wind that carried the sharp tang of the ocean. The terrain grew rugged, and the cliffside gave way to a plateau, culminating in the peak of the cliff, which jutted out majestically, providing an unobstructed panorama of the roaring sea below.
There, against the backdrop of the horizon where the sky touched the sea, stood a lone figure. The posture, the way the man shifted his weight from one foot to the other – it was unmistakable. A shiver of anticipation ran down the killer’s spine. Recognizing this man made the impending act all the more personal, all the morenecessary.
Slipping through the tall grasses like a wraith, the killer approached with utmost caution. Every movement was calculated, every sound was muffled. From the pocket of a worn coat, a rope was retrieved, its ends fraying slightly from previous encounters.
A gust of wind momentarily masked the killer's advance. The man, lost in thought, oblivious to his surroundings, never heard the soft footfalls. In one swift move, the rope was slung around his neck, tightening instantly. The man's eyes bulged in surprise and fear, his hands flying up in a desperate attempt to free himself. But the killer was strong, every muscle tensing with the effort to end it quickly.
In the heat of the moment, a combination of the man's determination and perhaps sheer panic gave him the strength to resist. He managed to get his fingers between the rope and his neck, loosening the grip just enough to take a gulp of air. Using all his might, he threw himself backward, catching the killer off-guard. The rope slipped, and for a brief second, their eyes met – two pools of shock and recognition.
But that second was all it took. With a cry of alarm, the man stumbled backward, his legs flailing for purchase. But the edge of the cliff was unforgiving. He screamed a sound that was swallowed by the gusting wind and then silenced abruptly as he disappeared over the edge.
The killer rushed to the cliffside, peering over. Far below, on the jagged, tooth-like rocks, the body lay sprawled, waves crashing near it, threatening to slowly pull it into the abyss.
A mix of emotions coursed through the killer: satisfaction at another life claimed, frustration at the messiness of the act, and a newfound need for a better kill. Sloppiness had never been a trait associated with these acts, and the killer was determined that such an error would not occur again.
Retrieving the rope, the killer vanished into the grass once more, a phantom whose work on the island was far from done.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Finn was feeling anxious. A dead end was always frustrating, but he had noticed that he was more out of sorts than he had been in many, many years.
The vast drawing room of Huldra House was bathed in a soft, golden hue from the flames that danced within the grand fireplace. The flickering light painted patterns on the wooden walls, casting everything in a warm, intimate glow. The room, with its velvet drapes and mahogany furniture, exuded a timeless elegance, a stark contrast to the chaotic events happening outside its confines.
Amelia, her red hair reflecting the flames, sat on one of the plush armchairs, legs crossed, her gaze thoughtful. "We might need someone else to drive us around after Kirsty’s deceit. We can't be sure of her anymore."
Finn looked at her, his brow furrowing in contemplation. He had been mulling over their next steps since they had left McGregor's cottage. "I don’t think that’s necessary. Kirsty's actions were personal. She was trying to protect her affair, not hide a murderer."
They sat in a comfortable silence, the crackling of the fire the only sound in the room. Outside, the daylight began its gradual descent into evening, casting elongated shadows on the vast grounds of the house.
Finn couldn’t stay still for long. Rising from his seat, he began to pace the room, each step echoing his growing frustration. “We’re spinning our wheels here. The answers we’re seeking are slipping through our fingers. We keep hitting dead ends."
Amelia leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "What if we're looking at this all wrong? What if Lord Carmichael's resort is just a surface motive? We still can't tie Ivar Ward to the same reason."
Finn stopped pacing, meeting her gaze. "That's what's been nagging at me. Lord Carmichael being targeted makes sense. He had plans, plans that riled up the community. But Ivar... Ivar Ward was a stranger with no known enemies on this island, and by all accounts, he may have even ended up here by accident. Everyone we've spoken to so far testifies to the fact that the man was known to avoid Huldra Island like the plague."
Amelia’s green eyes seemed to shine even brighter in the firelight. “Could it be possible that Ivar was simply at the wrong place, at the wrong time? Could his death be a matter of... chance?”
Finn considered her words. He walked over to the fireplace, staring deep into the dancing flames as if seeking answers. "A crime of opportunity, perhaps? But that makes our job even harder. It means there’s no direct pattern or motive."
