“Because you’re too damn cool and composed,” Torie insisted.
“Being calm makes a person suspicious?” Harmony asked. “There’s nothing I can do about the situation, so I don’t see a reason to freak out.” She paused a beat. “Besides, panicking can’t save me.”
“Besides, you freak out enough for all of us,” Mary said, staring at Torie.
“The other half of the island thinks it’s you,” Torie spat at Mary.
“Good,” Mary said without warmth. “Let them.”
A commotion near the shoreline caught their eyes. Someone seemed to duck behind the seawall—or they imagined it.
Cass huddled closer to Zach, who put his arm around her. Torie practically climbed into Tosh’s lap. Harmony stood.
“What are you doing?” Cass hissed. “What if someone’s watching us right now?”
“Then I want to see who they are,” Harmony said.
“No! I refuse to let you,” Cass said as she yanked her cousin back.
They waited. No one reappeared. The fog thickened.
“This is getting crazy. We’re seeing shadows where they don’t exist,” Cass said.
“That’s what happens when terror’s a constant,” Mary said.
They fell into silence, each sinking into their own dread. The fog pressed against the windows. The notes lay between them like fingerprints.
Outside, Deputy Evans walked by with Deputy Ciscel at his side. Evans’s jaw was tight, his eyes cutting briefly toward Harmony as if he recognized something he shouldn’t. It was Ciscel’s knowing nod that made Harmony’s stomach dip. His eyes flicked from her to the notes on the table, as if he knew exactly what they meant.
A chill coiled down Harmony’s spine.
They were no longer sure who the killer was. Or who was simply playing a role.
And the worst part was, the performance wasn’t over.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The Watchers
Never-ending fog drifted low over Avalon, sharpening a sense of dread that never seemed to leave. When Harmony stepped out of The Brewhouse, the air felt colder than it should, like maybe someone had peeled away the edges of the world, and she was now standing on the seam that was unraveling slowly.
She needed space.
She needed silence.
Instead . . . she got Detective Vega.
He leaned against a deputy’s cruiser across the street, arms folded, expression carved from suspicion. When he saw her, he pushed off the hood and approached with a steadiness that made her pulse quicken—not in fear, but in evaluation.
“Busy morning?” he asked.
“My life is busy,” she easily replied.
Vega studied her face as if he were memorizing it.
“Have you ever noticed that when people are under pressure or hiding from the truth, they talk faster and longer?”
“I’ve noticed those people rarely say enough,” she countered.
