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No, if Garrett was hurt, Kit would go back to the house and bring help. Garrett is a big guy. It’s going to take at least two of us to move him.
“Garrett?” I say.
The hand keeps moving. There’s a moment where I have a horrible flash of Nate’s hand sticking from the ground, of his body seeming to twitch of its own accord. But this isn’t that—I can see an upper arm and the bulk of a torso, almost obscured by the bush.
“Garrett?” I say again.
I take another step. Then I stop. It’s a smart watch—I can tell by the blank screen—but it’s gold, and not just gold colored.
That isn’t Garrett’s watch.
That isn’t Garrett’s hand.
That isn’t Garrett.
My heart thuds, stealing my breath. I force myself to take another step, while braced to run, as my brain screams this is a trap.
The man lifts his head. I couldn’t see it before through the bush and the gloom. He must have been lying facedown. Now he lifts his head, and I am looking into the face of a stranger. Yes, it’s still partly obscured by the bush, but there is no doubt that this isn’t Garrett. It’s a dark-haired man with tan skin and a beard. And he’s looking right at me.
I stumble back. The man’s mouth moves, but if he says anything, I can’t hear it over the blood pounding in my ears.
There is a stranger on my island.
You just figured that out? Weren’t you all huddled in the house earlier, locking the doors against this exact situation?
Yes, after finding that hand, we barricaded ourselves inside and then tried to flee on the boat because someone killed Nate and buried his hand and lured us outside to find it. That had seemed clear. But in the hours that passed, we’d convinced ourselves it wasn’t true. Sure, someone did kill Nate. Sure, they did stage his hand and lure us out, but they must have left before the storm hit, and if by some chance they missed that window, they were hiding, waiting for their chance to flee.
They killed Nate accidentally, and the last thing they wanted was for us to find them. We’d be careful, but we were safe.
How the hell did we decidethat? How did I delude myself into thinking it was safe to charge out here after Sadie?
Because we needed to believe it. Sadie was out here, hurt, and we needed to believe we weren’t in imminent danger from anyone on this island.
Now I’m staring at a stranger. He’s lying on his stomach, his hand outstretched, fingers clawing the ground. As I stare, he makes a noise. A low moan. As if he’s injured.
He’s faking being injured. So badly injured that he can’t get up.
Luring me in.
Get back to the house. Get back there now.
He’s between me and the house.
Then go around him, for God’s sake.
I don’t run. I don’t dare turn away from him. With my gaze fixed on that hand, I back up until there’s twenty feet between us. Only then do I veer and run.
TWENTY-THREE
I’m running for the house, and I’ve gone at least a hundred feet before I realize I can’t reach Hemlock House this way. Not directly, at least, unless I want to wade across a storm-swollen creek raging with icy water. I either need to go back and around the way I came or continue on to the bridge that Kit and I built our first summer here. I glance over my shoulder. There’s no sign of the man giving chase, but I can’t see into the forest, and he might be ten feet behind me and running fast.
Keep going. I know this island. I know every inch of it. If he’s behind me, I’ll get away. I have the advantage.
Do I? If that’s the guy who set all this up, then he’s rented my island twice, maybe visited even more often. He could know it as well as I do.
He’snotbehind me—at least not right behind me—and that’s all that matters.
I swerve north, away from the house. The bridge is up ahead over a patch of rock. Rock that’s slick with dead leaves and pools of rainwater.
