Framed photographs of the island’s early days hung in perfect rows, but Harmony could never shake the feeling that the eyes in those pictures followed her, the way people do when they recognize something familiar—something dangerous—in a stranger’s face. Beneath the carpet, she imagined the original floorboards, uneven and restless, shifting with the weight of everything the hotel had absorbed—secrets, confessions, quiet breakdowns behind closed doors.
Hotel Atwater pretended to be bright and welcoming, but Harmony sensed its true nature immediately. The building didn’t feel haunted. It feltaware, watching the way the island watched: quiet, patient, absorbing every misstep.
The Wrigleys had left behind more than legacy and fortune. The walls of this hotel remembered every person who’d ever stepped inside, hoping the island might help them forget who they really were.
One thing Harmony appreciated about the ghosts that walked the island was the fact that they were silent . . . they didn’t ask questions.
“You and Cass were nearly struck by a vehicle?” Durante asked.
“Yep, about an hour ago.”
“Do you know what kind of vehicle?”
“It was older. It happened fast, and it was so foggy we didn’t get a good look.”
“Big? Small? Truck? SUV? Car?”
“It was a smaller truck, I think, but I can’t even say what color it was.”
Durante nodded, making a note in his weathered notebook. “Okay, a small truck.”
“Maybe a jeep,” she added as she thought about it.
“There’s a big difference between a truck and a jeep,” he told her.
“The fog was thick, the lights were bright, and we were looking at the ground,” Harmony said.
“Do you want us to find this person?” Durante asked.
“No,” Harmony deadpanned. “I’d really prefer someone shove me off the cliff next time.”
“There are a lot of suspects. I’m simply trying to narrow it down,” he said.
“That’s comforting.”
“I’m not a counselor,” he said, zero apology in his voice.
They stepped out onto a small balcony. Harmony breathed easier in the open air.
“What did your note say?” Durante asked.
“You saw me.”
“Do you have any idea of who you might’ve seen?”
“I see everyone. And everyone sees something. I don’t know who’s doing this.”
Durante studied her. “Since you write about people for a living . . . what do you see when you look at the people on this island?”
“I see fear. A whole lot of fear,” Harmony said. She paused. “Except for the killer who has no fear and no remorse.”
“And you can’t figure it out by looking in people’s eyes?” he pushed.
“Everyone on this island has secrets in their eyes, Sergeant. They all have a story. They all have guilt.”
He gazed at her for several heartbeats. “Does that include you?”
She smiled. “Of course, it includes me. That’s why this island called to me so many years ago. It’s why it still calls to me. Did you ever watch those old Christmas cartoons? Catalina is the Island of Misfit Toys.” She chuckled softly. “I’m just one of many cast-out things waiting for a home.”
