And then everything feels too fast and too slow all at the same time.
Lo is moving too slowly; she’s not going to get away.
I’m moving too quickly, stumbling over my feet, trying to get to August before he gets to her.
The wind is howling through the inn, the water is sloshing around my ankles, and I hear a crack from upstairs that reverberates through my bones. I think about all the things it could be—a tree branch hitting the roof, a piece of glass breaking, a dresser tipping over. Then my hands are out in front of me, and I’m pushing, my hands against August’s wet shirt, and suddenly Lo is on her feet again, her bloody hand pressed alongside mine.
August tips backward, toward the window, and I want to shut my eyes against the sight of his body falling, and the water splashing down on my feet is warm.
And dark.
Because it’s not water after all. It’s blood.
Blood, because as he fell backward, August hit one of those nasty pieces of glass, and it sliced his throat. I shut my eyes again, but not before I see his body jerking violently, and Lo’s hand is on my back, and the world is nothing but rain and wind and broken glass and blood. Upstairs, there’s another crack, louder this time, and I clutch Lo because I don’t know what else to do.
The wind seems to be trying to pull the inn apart at the seams, andmeapart at the seams, too. I think of my mother, and Edie, and feel a small sliver of gratitude that they’re not here to see this. For if there ever were Witches of St. Medard’s Bay, their magic is now gone, because this storm has come to take the inn, and to take Lo and August and me with it.
Then, there’s a creaking from upstairs that turns into a roar, a sound like someone ripping a hole in the very fabric of the universe, and I—
Journalist, Author August Fletcher, 40, Dies in Freak Storm Accident
August 6, 2025
Columbus native and noted journalist August Fletcher has died in St. Medard’s Bay, Alabama, as a result of injuries sustained during last week’s Hurricane Lizzie. Fletcher was staying at the Rosalie Inn in St. Medard’s Bay while working on a book with local woman Gloria “Lo” Bailey. In a tragic twist of fate, Bailey became a tabloid darling in 1984 after she was accused of the murder of her lover during another storm, Hurricane Marie, also in St. Medard’s Bay.
According to coroner Robert Byrd, Jr., Mr. Fletcher was killed by debris while riding out the storm in the Rosalie Inn.
The inn itself sustained significant damage as well, losing its roof, and authorities are unsure if it will be reopened in the future.
While hurricanes in the area have frequently been serious and often deadly, Mr. Fletcher was one of only two deaths reported in Hurricane Lizzie.
The Columbus Dispatch
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
December 20, 2025
139 Days After
The morning Lo Bailey comes back to St. Medard’s Bay, the sun is shining.
I’ve been expecting her, but it’s still something of a shock to come out of the inn and see her sitting in one of the Rosalie’s pink beach chairs, her bare toes pointed toward the water even though it’s only in the fifties.
There’s still an ugly ridge of scars along the arch of one foot, the result of the surgery she’d needed to repair a tendon after Lizzie, but other than that, there’s little sign of the ordeal we went through together almost five months ago.
The same can’t be said for the Rosalie. The picture window in the lobby has been replaced, and we’ve got new carpeting downstairs, but the first floor is still bare of furniture, and parts of the roof are still covered in blue tarp. Soon, I’ll hear the cacophony of hammers as the workmen get here, slowly but surelybringing the Rosalie back to life, but for now the morning is quiet save for the surf and the gulls.
Lo is the only person on the beach this morning. Cap didn’t make it through Lizzie, dying not from the storm but from a heart attack as he loaded up his car to get out of town. He was the only other person this storm claimed, and for St. Medard’s Bay, that’s considered a relief.
“Morning, sugar!” Lo calls out as I drag two chairs down next to hers and flop into one, burying my hands in the sleeves of my oversize hoodie.
“You are too chipper for this early, Lo,” I tell her, and she smiles at me, her head lolling to one side.
“I’m always chipper,” Lo says. “It’s one of my many gifts.”
I snort in response, but I can’t really argue with her. After Lizzie, after August, I was a wreck. Nightmares, panic attacks, all of it. Later, I learned that those harrowing moments—August attacking Lo, me hitting August, him slicing his neck on the window, the storm peeling the roof off the inn—all happened in less than ten minutes.
That’s still hard for me to believe. I felt like Lo and I spent an eternity huddled in the chaos, but the roof was Lizzie’s big finale, turns out, one lastfuck youas her power drained away and the seas and the wind calmed.
