ONE
When this plane lands, I’ll either disappear into a nanny job on Helsing Island or end up cuffed and bleeding in a holding cell. There’ll be no makeup for my mugshot, no mercy at the trial. They’ll probably pour drinks after they throw me in the electric chair and send me straight to hell.
The judicial system doesn’t exactly go easy on cop killers. Not even those who didn’t murder by choice.
My gaze shifts to the window as the plane drops below the cloud line and the island comes into view. Even through the dark, the vast expanse of forest gives me hope that this will be the perfect place to hide.
The seatbelt bites into my hip bones. The cabin stinks of coffee, old sweat, and that sour chemical tang of recycled air. And the man sitting in the aisle next to mine hasn’t stopped staring at me since takeoff.
But so has everyone else. They know what I’ve done. Know where I’m going.
Mom told me I was damned. Dad called me a sinner. The old bastard they married me off to said I was a demon. Maybe they were right.
The tiny plane lands, taxis, then shudders to a stop, its propellers winding down with a metallic whine that cuts through the night air. Eight passengers file past toward the exit, their gazes boring into the side of my face.
My chest tightens. Each breath grows shallower, thinner. Countless nights of sleep deprivation have frazzled my nerves, but if I jump at every stare, I’ll blow my cover before I even land.
I fumble with my duffel’s zipper and rifle through the stolen cash, spare clothes, and the prepaid phone holding WhatsApp messages from a man named Edward Rochester.
That’s why I came to Helsing Island. In the hope that whoever’s behind the Facebook Marketplace ad really is a widowed father seeking a nanny and not a psycho setting a trap. But I’m desperate enough to answer the kind of ad no sane person would trust.
Mr. Rochester’s employee is meeting me at the airport. I turn on the burner phone to email him that the plane is late, and every one of his replies is replaced with a box that says:This message was deleted.
My messages remain, hanging in the void, but his side is scrubbed clean. When I click the Facebook Marketplace link, the ad no longer exists.
Shit.
The seatbelt snaps back like a whip as I rise, my legs shaky. My knees feel unsteady, not from the flight but from the weight of being a fugitive on the run about to hide out in a stranger’s manor.
Bottom line: I’ve run out of options.
The terminal is nothing more than a single room with plastic chairs bolted to the floor and fluorescent lights that hum like dying insects. Everything smells of bleach andjet fuel. The walls are stained yellow from years of moisture and neglect, and somewhere outside I can hear gulls crying like they’re mourning the dead.
There’s no café, no gift shop, no place to hide. Just vending machines humming in the corners and the hollow echo of footsteps on linoleum.
I clutch my duffel bag tighter and keep my head down as I walk toward the exit. My boots squeak with every step, screaming my presence. Through the glass doors I can see the parking lot with three cars and a pickup truck that’s more rust than metal. Paranoia has me crossing the empty space feeling eyes drilling into the back of my skull.
Legs trembling, I push myself toward the doors, pretending I’m not dying inside.
I’m halfway down the concourse when there’s movement in my periphery. A strange man shifts against the wall near the exit, his eyes raking up and down my form. He rocks on his feet, watching me walk toward him with a patient smile.
What if he’s a cop or FBI?
Shit.
Shit.
Shit.
My throat closes and my breath comes in panicked gasps as I imagine his hands on my wrists, the cold bite of cuffs, the way everyone back home will shake their heads and say they always knew this was where I was headed.
But I keep walking because I have a plan. Not really. He’s probably the driver my new employer said would meet me at the airport. But why isn’t he holding a sign? I hold my features in a neutral expression, pretend I’m not wanted for murder, and keep my gaze on the glass doors.
When I reach the exit, he leans forward and whispers something obscene. He wasn’t FBI. Just a fucking creep. I freeze for a second, too stunned to speak, flesh crawling like it’s trying to leave my bones. The automatic doors slide open with a pneumatic hiss, and I sprint out into the night.
The wind hits my face like a slap, driving rain through my jacket in seconds. It doesn’t matter that my boobs hurt from not wearing a sports bra, or the air tastes of salt and wet stone, or that I’m near the ocean though I can’t see it through the darkness. I’m grabbing this chance to escape that perv before he decides to take chase.
Up ahead, a single car idles at the curb, a vintage limousine from what I can tell by its shape. Chrome bumpers catch the yellow light from the terminal, and everything about it whispers old money. Some might call me a gold digger for moving toward it. I call myself a survivor. Better to risk safety with one powerful man than end up prey to every predator on my tail.
