The calico cat leaped onto the table. Hunter gently picked up Monday and scratched its neck, turning the purring button on.
“They’re not allowed on the table.” He set the cat on the ground. “But after all this time, they still break the rules.”
“So, what was at the end of Hunter’s treasure hunt? What was the birthday gift?”
“A Nintendo.”
“I loved video games. I bet you were stoked.”
“I was,” he said, turning the fish over on the grill. “Unfortunately, the same day, Annie grounded me for lying about reading for an hour, so I couldn’t play it the rest of the month.”
I couldn’t think of any time my parents grounded me. But I was an annoyingly good kid and rule follower. “Wow, that’s a bit extreme.”
Hunter shook his head with ayou have no ideaexpression, his eyebrows rising and eyes going big. “Annie loved two things: rewatching old movies and reading. And she took both activities very seriously.”
We continued to exchange stories, and bursts of laughter charged our lunch as we shared more about our upbringings between mouthfuls. So far, if I had yet to find any red flags about Hunter, I wouldn’t be able to. Of course, Phill was also perfect until one day he wasn’t.
When we cleaned the dirty dishes, Hunter broke down the strategy of dragging theReely Nautiout of the water and hoisting it. He sketched the pulley system we were going to build and explained the physics behind it. His drawing resembled a stick figure house hit by a Category Five hurricane; nonetheless, I understood his master plan. He warned it wouldn’t be easy but had great hopes that he had enough material to fix the boat—depending on the damage.
Hunter was an animated talker. He used his hands a lot, and his face used millions of different expressions, his smile always reaching his eyes, making them somehow even brighter. His enthusiasm gave me enormous hope that soon I’d return home to hot running water, a pool without snakes in it and a bedroom all my own. The logistics of getting to an embassy and sorting out my passport and money to buy a ticket to Miami could wait until my feet hit Avarua’s ground.
ChapterEight
In the kitchen, I brushed my teeth as Monday begged for attention, rubbing his body against my legs. This morning he acted needy, jumping on the bed when I was asleep, following me to the outhouse, and trying to open the door while I was inside. Maybe he was just happy to see me.
Yesterday, Hunter spent all day deconstructing part of the dock, while I dragged the salvaged timber into the shade to remove nails, then tried to straighten them so that today we could start building a pulley system. I looked at my bruised left thumb, which the hammer had whacked instead of the nail. Three times. By the end of the evening, Hunter and I were so tired we barely talked during our dinner of fresh fruit and grilled oysters.
Monday leapt up on the bench and bawled a meow, and my stomach growled in response. There was no need to wait on Hunter to make breakfast, and I shouldn’t always depend on him. If he got sick or injured, we would have to rely on me. I was capable of doing it myself. All I needed was fire. Last night Hunter showed me where the logs were, and I knew where the lighter was.
“Let’s go get some firewood.” I motioned to the cat, not that he would understand, but he jumped off the bench and ran after me.
Just outside the kitchen, the path curved deeper into a jungle. The chirping insects serenaded us, and Monday led the way as if he knew where we were going. Humming the Destiny’s Child song “Survivor” I pushed straight ahead, moving big green leaves out of my way. After a minute, striding through the shadowy thicket, I came upon an open space with logs neatly stacked inside a woodshed. An ax rested on top of it.
I picked a log and laid it in the crook of my arm. My hand went to get the second one, then a clinging sound, metal on a rock, resonated, and then it turned into a clank. I cocked my head to the side, concentrating. There it was again.
Dropping the wood, I walked around the woodpile and stepped again into the jungle gloom. I moved slowly, listening for the clanging noise. Ahead of me, leaves ruffled, and twigs broke. I kept moving. My right foot sunk into something soft, and I lurched back, muffling a yelp, my flip-flop swallowed by a new heap of recently turned-over dirt.
My chest tightened, fear stirring within me. I brushed my hair off my face. A five-foot-long and two-foot-wide lumpy dirt pile could have been many ordinary things like a new garden or a place to bury garbage… or it could be… a fresh grave.
“Shit,” I muttered.
My heart rate escalated, and each breath turned into a knife-stabbing pain. My brain struggled to come up with areasonable explanation other than this raw pile of dirt was a fucking grave. There was another mound, a yard or two away, about the same size, with flowerless plants claiming back the soft layer of black earth.
The sound of a shovel hitting the ground snapped me back to attention. I pulled my flip-flop out of the wet mud and slid it back onto my foot.
Swallowing my fear, I edged around the berm and trudged onward.
Pushing another giant banana leaf out of my way, I halted mid-step. Hunter was knee-deep in the ground. He struck the ground with a shovel and heaved the dirt to one side. Filth and sweat covered his shirt and arms. A few freshly dug-out rocks sat near the dirt mound. Panic ricocheted through me, and hairs rippled down my backbone.
The flat blade hit something hard, and I flinched. Hunter struck the earth again and then pushed down on the handle. The metal screeched against the hard stone. Dropping the shovel, he bent and pulled out a large stone.Quietly retreat and go back to the hut.
At my feet, Monday bellowed, announcing our presence.Fuckin’ A.Hunter swiveled with the rock in his hands, and froze when his eyes met mine.
My mind jammed with horror. My muscles tensed to the point of agony. The over-the-top images flashed through my mind—Hunter was Patrick Bateman in disguise. He had enough sex appeal, charm, and charisma to make himself irresistible to others. I hated myself for ignoring that Hunterwasa stranger and sleeping like a dead man. Oh God. Dead man. The first pile was for his uncle, or Edward’s mysterious girlfriends, whose things were in the shed. Or maybe it was someone else entirely. Fuck. He was going to murder me, and nobody would ever find me. I should have searched his place better for clues that he was a murderer.
I spun around and darted back between the greenery to the hut.
“Sydney!” Hunter yelled. “Wait!”
