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Another glance over my shoulder before I let myself slow down enough to get over that rock without falling. Then I’m at the bridge. As I cross, each footfall booms.
That bridge over the creek doesn’t seem safe. Are you sure it’s safe?
Little Billy jumped off that bridge into the creek and cut his foot on the rocks. Don’t you realize what a temptation that is for children?
Why aren’t there rails on that bridge? What if someone slips?
Voices of past renters ring in my ears, swirling with the rage of realizing a past renter did all this. Killed Nate. Mutilated his body. Hurt Sadie.
Fuck you. Fuck you all. You are never setting foot on my island again. This is mine, damn it. Mine.
“Not yours.”
The whisper sets me stumbling as I hit the end of the bridge, and my ankle twists. My arms windmill as I get my balance and then whip around.
There’s no one here. I’m surrounded by twenty feet of open rock on all sides.
A breeze snakes past, seeming to whisper as it does, making me give myself a shake. The wind is picking up, and I’m out here, panicked and alone and hearing voices.
I pause and look around again.
There’s no sign of the man who’d been lying on the ground.
Could he have really been hurt?
Damn, I hope so.
Unless…
I wrap my arms around myself and stare back the way I came. Back in the direction of the man. I’d told myself it must be the person who staged all this. John Sinclair, Security Guy. Is that the only answer?
What about the Abbases? The couple who’d been frightened off the island?
No, it couldn’t be them, because my boat was still at the Fox Bay dock.
What if they chartered another boat? Got someone to take them back to the island?
I remember the voice I heard on the phone. Dr. Abbas. A Middle Eastern accent, like his surname. The man I just fled from had dark hair and light brown skin.
Oh God.
What if that was Dr. Abbas?
I can’t run back to him. I can’t take that chance. I just need—
At a blur of motion, I wheel. It’s off to my right, away from the house, heading up that bluff toward the gazebo. A figure striding in that direction. Dark skin. Short dark curls and a beard. Light gray hoodie.
“Kit!” I shout, but the wind whips my voice away.
I run toward him. Still going the other way, he breaks into a jog, and then a run, as if he’s spotted something on that bluff. I shout louder, but he’s too far to see me now.
I pick up speed. Soon I’m at the base of the bluff. The route Kit took is along the edge, and I’m ready to head up the trail and cut him off, but the dirt path is flooded and slick with mud. I pick my way over to his route. It’s not as close to the edge as it seemed, and we use it all the time for the view. The rocks here are rough enough that they aren’t rain-slick, and I climb easily. I’m nearly at the top when I spot something below.
A boat, tucked into a small bay.
I stop and stare down, as if at a mirage. Then I look up to where Kit disappeared. Is this what he saw? It must be, and he’s taking the route down the other side. There’s another path here, one I discovered on my own—a safe trail to that little bay, where I could sit on the rocks and write as the water crashed beneath my feet.
I start down. I’ll meet Kit at the small bay, and we’ll check the boat and pray it has keys. Hell, if it doesn’t have keys, we’ll grab oars and row it to shore.
