Step. Pause. Listen.
Halfway to the bottom, her phone buzzed again—a single vibration this time. She glanced down.
Viv. Answer me!
The door to the outside stood open, fog curling in through the gap. She stepped closer, cautious, every muscle coiled tight.
Then—headlights.
Two bright beams cut through the fog, slicing across the rocks outside. She squinted against the glare. The shape of a vehicle emerged—a dark SUV, low and heavy, the kind that didn’t belong on backroads like these.
Her phone buzzed again, the sound harsh in the quiet.
Another text.
Five minutes out.
Vivian dropped low behind the wall, breath catching in her throat. Through the door, she watched the SUV roll closer, tires crunching over gravel. It stopped just short of the fence, engine idling.
No one got out.
She couldn’t see through the windshield, the tint too dark. But she felt it. That prickling at the base of her neck—the weight of being watched.
She held her breath. Her heart beat stumbled then surged. She swallowed down the anxiety and took in a soothing breath. Panic got you killed.
The light lingered on the door, unmoving.
A thud of adrenaline hit her ribs. Every instinct screamed to stay down, to wait.
After a long moment, the SUV shifted into reverse. The crunch of tires broke the silence as the lights swept away, swallowed again by the fog.
She stayed frozen, listening. One beat. Two. Three.
When nothing moved but the wind, she exhaled. Her breath shook. She eased to her feet, muscles tight from crouching too long.
The phone in her pocket still didn’t have reception. The last message from Blake glared up at her.
Vivian holstered her weapon and turned back toward the stairwell. If Blake’s text was right, and Jenson had been here, she needed that casing—proof, direction, something to tie this to Jenson before whoever had left it decided to come back and erase the evidence.
Her boots clicked against the metal steps as she climbed. The wind outside pressed against the lighthouse walls, a low moan rolling through the structure. The higher she went, the more it sounded like something breathing.
The casing glinted up at her from the cracked floor, a single tear of brass against the concrete.
“Got you,” she whispered, pulling a small evidence pouch from her pocket.
She plucked the casing from the floor, slipped it into her pocket, and pivoted toward the stairs?—
A whisper of air.
A scrape of boot on metal.
Not cautious. Not hesitant. Deliberate.
A shadow detached from the curve of the lantern glass above, too controlled to be an accident.
Vivian drew her Glock, turning?—
He hit her hard.
