They think I wrote about the killings. I didn’t. I wrote about art. I documented every scream. Every lie. Every heartbeat was a new sentence. Now, the story is finished . . . for now. I won’t kill again. That was just for this story. It didn’t awaken something in me that now needs fed. But there is always a new story that needs a new plot. I don’t know what the next one will be yet, what players I’ll need for inspiration. It won’t take long for me to figure it out, though.
And the island, quiet and obedient, waited like a page held open by invisible hands. It still inspired her, still spoke to her. Whispers floated down from the hills high above. When her feet touched the warm ocean, it woke her.
Before Harmony could close her laptop, her phone buzzed.
A single text—from an unknown number.
A picture of her cottage . . . taken from below . . . five minutes ago. The angle was deliberate. Measured.
Below the picture were four words.
Nice ending. Try again.
Harmony stared. She hadn’t scheduled that message. She hadn’t scripted that voice. She hadn’t been the only one writing a story this entire time. She’d figured that out long ago. It should fill her with fear. For some reason, it didn’t. Maybe, deep down inside she was afraid, but she was so good at burying what she didn’t want to face, that she didn’t understand her own emotions ninety percent of the time.
Her heartbeat didn’t race. Her breath didn’t hitch. Instead, a slow, electric thrill unfurled through her chest.
Someone else thinks they’re writing with me now. Someone wants to play. Someone wants a sequel. I’ve never written with a partner before. It could be a challenge. It could be exciting. It could possibly take me to heights I’ve never reached before.
Harmony smiled again. Logically, she knew she should feel at least a bit of fear . . . but she felt none. She was excited. It seemed a new game had begun. She always had enjoyed games.
She pressed save.
She looked at the file resting on her home screen. It was absolutely beautiful. She savored it. Then, with a small, satisfied smile, she sent the file to her trash bin and emptied it. The only copies left were in her head—and in places she’d never need to retrieve them from.
She did have another story that would publish, a story inspired by it all. But not this one. This one was personal. This one had made her into a new woman. This one couldn’t be read by anyone.
The cursor blinked once. The ocean whispered. Somewhere outside, gravel shifted under someone’s foot. Harmony closed her eyes.
Every story needs an ending. But the best ones—the very best—invite another beginning.
The screen went dark.
Epilogue
The Quiet Between Storms
Zach rarely slept well anymore. Tonight, though, Avalon felt gentle. Too gentle.
The windows of his comfortable hillside home were cracked open, letting in a soft breath of ocean air. The distant hum of waves was steady, grounding. His tools were scattered across his coffee table—sandpaper, clamps, a half-finished cedar jewelry box he’d been telling himself he’d finish for months. Things that could be fixed.
He worked slowly, smoothing the grain with the care of a man trying to steady his own heartbeat. For the first time in weeks, he felt . . . almost peaceful. What scared him, though, was that, peace seemed to always arrived right before something broke.
A knock sounded at the door—soft, deliberate, practiced.
He froze, palm hovering over the wood. No one should be knocking.
When he opened the door, Harmony stood framed in the moonlight, wearing something simple—a loose sweater and darkjeans—but she looked as if the night had shaped itself around her. Like it recognized her.
“Hello,” she said, voice low and dreamy.
He stepped aside. She brushed past him, her presence filling the room like the subtle shift before lightning strikes.
“I didn’t think you were coming back this soon,” he said.
“I wasn’t planning on it,” she replied, moving comfortably through his home. “I changed my mind.” There was a long pause as she turned and looked at him, really saw him. For just a moment, she let down the shutters that always kept people at a distance, let him see the real her, the woman so few got to see. She smiled. “I missed you.”
He was shocked. There was no doubt in his mind the words were honest. He was very aware, though, that honesty didn’t mean it wasn’t dangerous.
