The cursor blinked, patient and expectant, as if waiting to be impressed. It always waited for her. Harmony’s desk lamp cast her face in soft amber while the rest of the cottage remained drowned in shadow. Outside, the ocean pressed itself against the cliffs in rhythmic surrender. Avalon was peaceful again—at least at the surface.
She began typing.
I needed a better story. I needed inspiration. The truth was never enough on its own.
Words unfurled easily, like they’d been sitting behind her tongue for months, waiting for permission to breathe.
A story isn’t alive until it bleeds. Until it hurts. Until it forces someone to wonder what they would do if they were me.
She took a sip of wine, smiling faintly. The moonlight shimmered through the window, silvering the pages of notes that were scattered around her—color-coded tabs, timelines,sketches of scenes, psychological triggers mapped like terrain. Beautiful chaos. Only she understood the pattern.
The trick wasn’t killing. The trick was making it all look like chance. I had to make it look like the island was alive, like it had teeth, and wasn’t afraid to use them. I had to make sure the story went on.
She leaned back and let herself remember.
The first body had been the hardest. Not morally—physically. She’d underestimated the weight, the way flesh fought gravity in death. The warmth fading under her hands. The resistance of a body that didn’t want to become still. She hadn’t planned the murder, but opportunity had struck. She’d written death a hundred different ways. The reality of it was unlike anything she could’ve ever imagined.
By the second one, she’d adapted. She’d studied nautical knots, counterweights, crime-scene staging. All under the guise ofrealistic researchfor a writer. People forgive obsession if it produces art. Besides, no one questions a writer’s browser history—not when the story is good enough.
Art begins in chaos. Meaning comes later. At first it made me sick. The sound, the smell, the finality of it. But Art is shaped, trimmed, and made beautiful. By the third body, I understood what had to be done. I wasn’t killing . . . I was creating meaning. I was giving them a story worth remembering.
Harmony clicked open another folder—draft manuscripts titled with each victim’s name.
Lisa.
Heidi.
Candy.
Janie.
Janie’s file remained nearly empty.
I never planned to kill her. Plans change when witnesses don’t look away. She was simply . . . inconvenient. I never likedher. She was too observant. Too bold. She asked why I was always nearby. She watched my eyes when others spoke. She was the first person to truly see me.
Harmony took a deep breath, her fingers hovering above the keys, her brow furrowed.
I didn’t lie to her once my decision was made. There was no point. Some people beg beautifully. Janie begged badly. She’s a death I feel zero remorse for.
She looked again at Heidi’s folder. Harmony paused on her name longer than she meant to. Heidi hadn’t fit as cleanly into the pattern. That should’ve bothered her more than it did.
She’d taken her time with Heidi. Not because the logistics demanded it, but because something in her resisted efficiency. Harmony didn’t understand the sensation at first. It wasn’t rage. It wasn’t fear. It certainly wasn’t love.
Heidi’s laugh had lingered too easily around Zach. Her hand had rested on his arm as if it belonged there. Harmony had observed it the way she observed everything else, cataloging details, noting reactions. But this time, the data had come with friction.
Jealousy, she decided.
The word felt foreign. Academic. She didn’t experience emotions the way other people did. She studied them. Dissected them. Used them. And yet, with Heidi, the impulse had been . . . personal.
Harmony hadn’t rushed. She’d watched longer. Adjusted more carefully. The scene mattered. The pacing mattered. Heidi’s fear had unfolded slowly, beautifully, as if Harmony were testing a hypothesis she hadn’t known she was forming.
Harmony didn’t show emotion the way the rest of them did, not since she’d been shamed because of it. But, they would all be shocked to realize how much she actually did feel. Sure, she could hide within herself, but when no one was looking, shestopped pretending. She didn’t have to lie anymore . . . especially to herself.
When Heidi’s death was finished, Harmony had felt something close to clarity and . . . satisfaction. The distraction had been removed. She’d never touch Zach again.
Heidi’s death had taught her something important.
Not about desire.
