There was no answer but the hush of foliage parting in reticence. A shadow shifted—the briefest flicker of a presence—and then stillness returned, oppressive and mocking. My heart thudded a warning, adrenaline flooding my system.
Another rustle. I halted and put a finger to my lips out of habit. My eyes darted across the underbrush, every training protocol etched into my muscles, tensing for action. There was no breeze to excuse the movement, no benign wildlife to be seen scampering. This was deliberate and calculated.
Was someone following me?
"Show yourself," I demanded, voice steady despite the drumbeat of my heart against my ribs. Silence answered, defiant and stretched thin like a wire about to snap.
I crept forward, one cautious step after another, the crunch of my flip-flops on the ground seeming deafening in the hush.
Another rustle—closer this time, a whisper of sound in the stifling quiet. The foliage parted slightly, just enough for me to catch a glimpse of something… someone.
"Marcus Cole." The name escaped my lips before I could reel it back in. I recognized him from the papers from ten years ago. There he was. Standing in the bushes, hiding behind them, looking like a portrait of ruin, his clothes hanging off him in tatters, face gaunt with dark circles underlining his watchful eyes.
"Who are you? I saw you in my bungalow, touching my things."
He breathed out, the words tangled in a mess of disbelief and fear. His emergence from the shadows was like a ghost stepping forth from its haunting, the past bleeding into the present.
“I’m FBI Agent Thomas,” I said. "Marcus, why are you here?" I kept my voice level, but inside, my pulse throbbed.
“Why are you asking?”
“Because you being here makes it look like you are here for revenge. Maybe you already had it? Did you kill Mark?”
He shook his head with a snort. “You gotta be kidding me.”
“Then help me, Marcus. Tell me why you’re here. Why are you hiding in a seemingly empty bungalow?”
"Isn't it obvious?" His laugh was a sharp burst, bitter as the salt tang in the air. "I'm searching for something."
"Searching? Or hiding?" The accusation hung heavy between us like the oppressive humidity of the island.
"Hiding? From what, Agent Thomas?" His gaze darted left, then right, like a caged animal seeking an escape. "The ghosts of my past?"
"Mark's dead, Marcus. You're linked to him, to Isla. Can't ignore that."
"Linked by lies!" His fist clenched and unclenched, a rhythm of frustration. "You think this is easy? Being back here?"
"Easy? No. But necessary? Maybe." I stepped closer, watching the muscles in his jaw twitch. "Tell me your side of the story."
"Side…," he scoffed, his voice cracking. "Sides imply fairness. There was nothing fair when they locked me up at seventeen!"
"Then help me understand," I urged, trying to pierce his armored exterior.
"Understand?" His eyes blazed, and his hands shook with barely restrained fury. "You can't. Not unless you've been in that hellhole."
"Try me."
"Ten years," he spat out. "Ten years in a cell, while the real killer walked free."
"Who, Marcus? Who's the real killer?"
"Wouldn't you love to know?" His smirk was quick and vanished fast, leaving behind a shadow of pain. "Like anyone would believe me now."
"Try me," I repeated, softer this time.
"Believe a convict?" He shook his head, a lock of hair falling into his eyes. "No one listens to a ghost."
"Marcus, ghosts don't leave footprints. You're alive. Talk."
