It's quiet enough, I can hear my own thoughts now that the whiskey's worn off. They're too loud. The memories too vivid. One voice rings out over all the others.Hervoice.
“I’m sorry, Doc.”
Something rustles, and a second later, McCabe slaps an envelope against my chest.
"What's this?" I don’t have to ask. Not much else feels like a thick wad of cash. Or smells like it.
He shrugs like I'm not holdingat leastten grand and starts sauntering back to his truck. “Your first month's salary. And a phone number. You've got forty-eight hours. If you're in, call me.”
“And if I'm not?”
The street light casts harsh shadows over his scars. “Then I was wrong about you, Doc. And I'm almost never wrong.”
Before I can come up with a reply, the engine starts with a low purr. Seconds later, he's gone, and I'm alone. Holding more money than I can count and staring out over the dark water.
CHAPTER THREE
One Year Ago, July
Natasha
The old flipphone vibrates so loudly, I jerk, and coffee soaks the front of my white t-shirt. “Son of a bitch!”
The ringer could wake the dead, but “silent” mode is even worse. Maybe I should consider that smartphone Clancy keeps offering to buy me. But those can be tracked. This ancient brick doesn’t have GPS. And the battery life is amazing. I can go four days without a charge.
I don’t need a smartphone. I rarely leave the island. Gladys lets me use her computer whenever I ask, and Clancy pays for a couple of movie channels.
That’s enough contact with the rest of the world.
I open the text message from the resort’s reservation system.
Campsite 4: D. Reynolds
Arrival time: 12:00 p.m.
Length of stay: Two days
Damn. That’s the fourth guest this week—and it’s only Wednesday. When I took this job, all I had to do was hand out keys for the five cabins on the property whenever someone rented one—which wasn’t often. But then Clancy’s daughter discovered the joys of online advertising, and since then, the cabins are booked solid every weekend, and he turned a couple of acres into campsites.
Stripping off my t-shirt, I scowl at the coffee staining my bra. Why didn’t I do laundry yesterday like I’d planned?
Because the asshole in the Orca Cabin clogged the toilet. Then spent almost two hours telling me everything he thought was wrong with the place. The air conditioner makes too much noise. The sheets are scratchy. There’s an odd smell in the utility closet.
Yeah. Cleaning supplies.
I snag one of my sports bras from the hamper and give it a quick sniff. Passable. As long as I don’t have to get too close to anyone. Shouldn’t be that hard. Campers don’t need much hand holding. I’ll show D. Reynolds to Site 4, make sure he—or she—knows they have to wear a life vest if they take the canoe out on the Sound, and warn them about the mosquitos this time of year. Then I can take one of the kayaks and paddle until I’m so exhausted,maybeI’ll be able to sleep through the night.
Hauling the laundry bag down to the basement, I wonder if I should run again. Four years, six months, and eleven days on Blakely Island. It’s starting to feel like…home. More than anywhere I’ve been since I was twenty-one and enlisted in the army.
The fresh scent of the detergent reminds me of my childhood. Of weekends spent hanging laundry in the backyard on the base. Of folding clothes with my mom. Of my brother taking me trick-or-treating wearing mom’s best flat sheet—after he’d cut eye holes in it. Mom was so angry, she groundedbothof us.
I’d give anything to go back there now. Even just for an hour.
But I can’t. Everyone I love—everyone I’ve ever cared for—is gone. Because of me. Because five of the men I served with were corrupt pieces of shit who thought they could get away with trafficking drugs and killing innocent civilians. Woman. Children.
“Stop it, Natasha. Don’t go there.”
The last time I let myself travel down memory lane, I ended up cracking the seal on the bottle of bourbon I keep behind the oatmeal. Then drinking until I couldn’t see straight.
