Lena ploddedup the wooden steps to her cottage: feet sandy, pockets lined with broken bits of shell and sea glass, fingers sore from clenching them as she walked miles of beach trying to settle her nerves.
She hadn’t expected clarity from the ocean, exactly—but it had helped. The rhythm of the waves, the caress of the wind, the quiet companionship of salt and silence. She had needed that. After lunch with Kate, after the truth she’d let slip, Lena had craved the peace only the sea and solitude offered.
She couldn’t deny that telling Kate the story, and the guys before that, had helped a bit, as if each retelling removed a pound of sorrow from her shoulders. It definitely helped that they all believed her. Believed in her.
The steps creaked under her weight, echoing the slow thump of her heart. She studied the sun-bleached grain of the planks, as if the wood might rewrite the remembrance of yesterday’s awkward exchange with David. She didn’t want things to stay like this—tight and tense and uncertain. Kate had been right. She needed to talk to him. Clear the air.
She reached the landing and stopped short.
A package sat in front of her door.
Wrapped in slick black paper and tied with a glossy black ribbon, it looked more like something delivered by a mortician than by a florist. It gleamed in the sunlight, its crisp edges and perfect bow stark against the weathered wood.
Lena’s breath caught.
No one received deliveries at the cottages. Resort protocol was airtight—mail and packages were routed through the main building, signed for, logged, verified.
But this… this had come straight to her. To herhome.
And it waited on her doorstep.
Goosebumps prickled on her arms.
She scanned the secluded clearing around her, the soft rustle of palmetto fronds the only sound. Her fingers trembled on her phone.
Flashes of memory came unbidden—intense, disjointed:
Dead flowers, edges blackened, petals wilted and curling in on themselves. Thorns cutting where there shouldn’t have been any.
Shattered seashells, her favorite thing to collect, crushed and left as a message.
The phone calls—first silent, then heavier, breath on the line like someone standing too close.
Yesterday... her name whispered. A quiet laugh. The click of the call ending.
A twinge of nausea crawled up her throat.
She sat on the top step, the wood still warm from the afternoon sun. She couldn’t take her eyes off the ominous package. She needed to report this. The security breach, at least.
Who should she call? Walter was off today too, and she couldn’t bother him at home. Emma was out of town. She didn’t know any of the other managers or supervisors yet.
David… Her thumb hovered over his name, heart tugging at the echo of his tone in her mind: sharp and cold. No. Not him. Not now. Not until they cleared the air.
She inhaled and pressed Zach’s contact. He picked up on the first ring. “Is there a problem, Lena?” His voice rumbled as deeply as ever, but sounded tinged with something softer. Concern, maybe?
Right. Caller ID. “I don’t know. I’m probably being silly, or paranoid,” she winced at the words. “I didn’t know who to call?—”
“What’s going on?”
She closed her eyes, exhaling slowly. “There’s a package on my porch. A gift, I guess. Black wrapping paper, black bow. I don’t get mail here. I haven’t ordered anything. It’s… peculiar. Especially with what’s been happening lately. I don’t want to open it alone.” She shouldn’t have called him. He must think she’s an idiot.
The silence on the phone stretched for a beat. “I’ll be right there. Don’t move it. Don’t go inside. Better yet, head back toward the hotel. I’ll meet you en route, and you can follow me back.” The line went dead before she could protest, although she didn’t want to. The box was giving her the heebie-jeebies.
Heart pounding, she stood and backed away from it. Zach was coming himself. If he thought this deserved his personal attention—that changed everything. No brushing it off now.
Whatever, she knew better than to disobey an order from Zach. He’d probably make her run ten miles or do a thousand pushups. She smirked at that thought and got back into her golf cart, buzzing down the narrow path.
As she rounded the first corner, she heard the thrum of a motorcycle and saw Zach’s black bike emerging from between the trees, sunlight glinting off metal. She swerved aside and turned around. He passed her with a nod, then peeled off towardher cottage. By the time she arrived, he was crouched by the steps, focused on the sinister little box.
