I walk the shoreline until the moon sinks low. Then I climb the path back toward town. I move slow, steady, unhurried, listening to the wind’s low murmur. The houses blink awake in the dark, scattered across the hills—fragile, vulnerable. From here, Avalon looks like a handful of fallen stars.
Lights flicker behind glass as I pass. Lives shifting like goldfish in clear bowls. So fragile. So unaware. I wonder what they’re dreaming about. I wonder if they can feel me watching. It would be so easy to step closer, to slide my hand through an open window, to let the whispering guide me.
A figure stands at the top of the hill—broad-shouldered, hands on hips, posture unmistakably law enforcement. I can’t see the face. Just the stance. Just the certainty. The same kind of patient outline I’d seen watching other people’s windows, other people’s nights.
Deputies patrol these streets at night, but they don’t usually stop to stare at sleeping houses.
Or at me.
A porch light flicks on somewhere behind me. Not near the window—behind me.
A shadow shifts.
Someone else walking the quiet roads tonight, timing their steps to the same heartbeat.
I don’t turn around. Let them watch. Let them wonder whether I walk within the dark or the light. Maybe they think I’m just another insomniac drifting home.
Maybe they know better.
One window draws me closer.
The woman sleeps inside—breath shallow, hair spilling across her pillow—beautiful.
Peaceful.
I wonder if she’ll look that way after.
I don’t feel sick.
I feel alive.
I’ll be back to visit soon . . . very,verysoon.
And as I step away from the window, I feel it again—another breath in the dark, not mine, not the island’s.
Someone else tasting the same fear I tasted.
Someone learning the story I’m writing, line by line, waiting for their chance to add a chapter.
Chapter Nine
Secrets and Bonds
The Marlin breathed like the island itself—slow, steady, and just dangerous enough to make the air hum. Fan blades stirred the thick evening warmth as the door swung open and closed, letting in bursts of laughter, gossip, and salt wind. The carved mermaid above the bar watched it all with a knowing, wicked smirk—as if she’d witnessed a thousand confessions and expected a thousand more. Not too many people knew that Sue had been the one who perfected the art, giving it brilliant color and eyes that seemed to know more than you did.
Behind the counter, Lorenzo ruled his domain in shirtsleeves and rolled cuffs, pouring drinks with the precision of a priest and the grin of a man who enjoyed other people’s chaos.
“With this group walking in,” he said, sliding a row of glasses into place, “the night just got interesting.”
Near the far end of the bar, Deputy Ciscel stood with one elbow on the wood, a sweating club soda in front of him—the kind of drink you ordered when you wanted a clear head, nota good time. No uniformed partner tonight, no loud presence—just a quiet, steady gaze that swept the room in slow, methodical passes.
He wasn’t drinking, wasn’t talking, just watching the way people folded toward one another, how their laughter rose a little too sharply. His eyes lingered for a beat on Harmony and Cass’s corner, then slid to the mirror behind the bottles, as if he preferred to see everyone in reverse.
“Walk-through,” Lorenzo had called it earlier. “After a murder, the deputies like to be seen.” This one looked like he preferred seeing to being seen.
Tosh dropped into a chair like he owned it, a picture of casual sin. Candy slid in next to him, hair damp from the ocean, her smile too loose to be safe. Torie hovered behind them—taut, watchful, and not nearly drunk enough. Zach took the end seat, angled so he could see both the door and the entire bar. Harmony and Cass claimed their usual corner beneath a sun-bleached map of Catalina.
“Hydrate or lie,” Lorenzo announced. He set down waters and a round of tequila, nudging Harmony’s glass toward her with the tip of his finger. “You look like sin dressed as innocence.”
