“That’s true for most of us,” Harmony said.
They kept talking while people drifted in like the tide. At the far end of the bar, Harmony watched Candy approach Tosh, who was next to Lorenzo.
“The island takes what you offer,” Lorenzo said mildly. “So offer wisely.”
“Pour me mercy,” Candy said.
“I’m all out,” he replied, handing her water instead.
She drank it, then turned to Tosh. “Take me home.”
“Ask,” he said.
“Please,” Candy whispered.
Tosh stood. Something flinty passed over his features—control settling over him like armor. He left the bar first. Candy sat down, clearly unsure if he wanted her to join him or not.
“Ready to go?” Harmony asked Cass.
“I’m right behind you,” she promised.
Harmony stepped outside. Only the sea murmured as she moved along Crescent Avenue, her sandals quiet on the cobblestone. The air tasted of rum and regret. Ahead, she saw Zach leaning against the wall.
“She’s angry,” he said without turning.
“Torie?” Harmony asked.
He nodded. “Angry people make mistakes.”
“So do calm ones,” she said. “Goodnight, Zach.”
As she turned away, a patrol SUV idled at the corner, engine low, lights dark. For a moment, the glow from the bar caught the outline of a deputy behind the wheel—broad shoulders, hand resting loosely on the steering wheel like he had all the time in the world. The same patient stillness she kept catching on hillsides and bluffs.
The vehicle didn’t move when she passed. It was simply a quiet reminder that someone with a badge was counting who went home and who didn’t. Harmony kept walking, resisting the urge to glance back and see if the driver’s gaze followed her.
Zach’s presence unsettled and steadied her at the same time. He listened without trying to fix her, watched without making her feel pinned, and yet there were gaps—little pockets of silence he didn’t explain. He knew more than he said. She could feel it. It made her want to trust him and interrogate him in equal measure, and she wasn’t sure which urge scared her more.
It didn’t take long to make it to the cottage. Harmony sat cross-legged on the bed, journal open, the stub of a pencil smudging the side of her hand.
Never have I ever:
Used a confession to build a character.
Watched a kiss and wondered who the violence was for.
Mistook silence for safety.
Written a friend into a corner to see how they would climb out.
Envied the lives of others.
Wanted freedom more than my next breath.
She tried to put the plot together, to slot people into categories the way she outlined suspects in her books. Motive. Opportunity. Capacity. The exercise didn’t make her feel safer. It did the opposite. Because no matter how she rearranged the mental list, one truth stayed fixed . . . if Lisa’s killer was here, it wasn’t a stranger in the dark. It was someone whose voice she knew and whose smile she’d already memorized.
The door clicked, and Cass’s head appeared, hair a little wild, eyes bright with leftover bar light. “You’re hard at work.”
“Always,” Harmony said.
