My hands are steadier than I expect as I break the seal. The letter inside is three pages, covered in the same elegant script. I unfold it, angling it toward the dim light.
The first line stops my breath:
If you're reading this, then I'm dead, and you're in terrible danger.
CHAPTER 1
ELIZA
My hands shake as I read the rest of Aunt Maureen's letter by the dim entrance hall light. Outside, the wind howls and rain lashes the windows with increasing fury. Her handwriting remains elegant even as the words grow more urgent across the three pages.
If you're reading this, then I'm dead, and you're in terrible danger.
Eliza, I know we were never close. Your mother saw to that, and I can't blame her—she was trying to protect you from what she couldn't understand. But blood calls to blood, and you're here now because you have to be. Because you're a Gordon woman, and the island won't let you leave until you know the truth.
The locals will tell you I fell from the cliffs. An accident, they'll say. A foolish old woman whowent walking in bad weather. Some will claim my heart gave out. They might even believe it themselves. But you're a journalist—you know how to see past comfortable lies. Trust your instincts. Trust nothing else.
There are journals hidden throughout this house. Find them. Read them. They contain everything I’ve learned about Stormhaven and the Gordon family's connection to this place. Our connection. It goes back generations, Eliza, long before I came here.
Be careful whom you trust. The island has eyes, and not all of them are human. Watch the woods. Watch the water. And whatever you do, don't go near the tide pools at Raven's Point after dark.
I'm sorry I couldn't protect you from this inheritance. But perhaps you're stronger than I was. Perhaps you can break what I couldn't.
Your aunt, Maureen
I read the letter three times, my journalist's brain cataloging questions even as my hands continue to tremble. Drowned? Gerry said her heart gave out, that she fell and she was found at the foot of the cliff. Someone's lying, but who? And what inheritance is she talking about beyond this crumbling house?
The storm chooses that moment to fully arrive. Thunder cracks so loud the windows rattle in their frames, and thelights flicker once, twice, then die completely. I'm plunged into darkness so absolute I can't see my own hands.
"Brilliant," I mutter, fumbling in my jacket pocket for my phone. The screen's glow is barely enough to light my immediate surroundings, but it's better than nothing. I need to find candles, or a torch, or something. The solicitor mentioned the fridge—which means there's a kitchen somewhere.
I make my way down the corridor, using my phone's light to navigate. The house groans and creaks around me, settling into the storm. Or at least, that's what I tell myself the sounds are. Not footsteps on the floor above. Not doors opening and closing in distant rooms.
The kitchen, when I find it, is surprisingly large and old-fashioned. An ancient Aga cooker dominates one wall, and the counters are worn wood that probably predates indoor plumbing. I scan the room with my phone's light and spot a drawer that looks promising. Inside, I find a heavy torch and—thank god—it works when I press the button.
The improved light steadies my nerves slightly. I'm being ridiculous. It's just an old house, a storm, and a letter written by an old woman who was clearly not in her right mind at the end. The rational explanation is that Aunt Maureen was suffering from some form of dementia, constructed elaborate paranoid fantasies, and did indeed die of natural causes.
Except.
Except I've spent a decade as an investigative journalist, and my instincts are screaming that something is very wrong here.
I check the fridge, where Gerry said I'd find the landline number, and discover it's still running on some kind of battery backup. Inside, there's milk that's only a few days past its date, eggs, butter, and a covered casserole dish with a note:
For Miss Warren, welcome to Skara. - Mrs. Campbell.
The kindness catches me off guard. At least someone on this island doesn't see me as a threat.
The number for Gerry's post office is indeed on the fridge, held by a magnet shaped like a puffin. I consider calling him, then dismiss the idea. What would I say? That I'm frightened by a storm and a letter? I've weathered worse situations in war zones.
Instead, I explore the ground floor more thoroughly. The sitting room contains furniture that was expensive decades ago, now shrouded in dust and faded grandeur. A study lined with bookshelves, most of them empty. A formal dining room that looks like it hasn't been used in years. No journals that I can see, though I make a mental note to search more carefully in daylight.
By the time I haul my suitcase upstairs, exhaustion has settled into my bones. I choose a bedroom at the front of the house with an attached bath. It has the least dust and a bed that's already made up with sheets that smell of lavender. Through the window, I can barely make out the churning sea below the cliffs, occasional lightning illuminating whitecaps like teeth.
I fall asleep with Maureen's letter on the nightstand beside me and the torch within easy reach. My dreams are full of dark water and voices calling my name.
Morning arrives gray and sullen, the storm reduced to a steady drizzle. I wake disoriented, momentarily forgetting where Iam, then everything floods back. The letter. The warning. The terrible isolation of this house perched on the edge of nothing.
The power has returned sometime in the night. I shower in a bathroom with ancient fixtures and water that takes forever to heat, then dress in jeans and a sweater. Professional enough for meeting the solicitor, practical enough for exploring.
