His arm wavered, the gun's muzzle drifting toward the polished floor. The line of his mouth softened, and for a moment, I could see who he used to be—that seventeen-year-old boy, lost.
"Okay," he breathed, almost inaudibly.
Marcus's gaze clung to mine, a silent pact forming in the space between us.
"Tell me who offered you the money if you confessed to killing Isla," I said.
The room's air felt thick and sticky with anticipation as if time itself was holding its breath. His shoulders bent forward, surrender etching into his posture. The gun's sheen dulled as it descended, an inch from my outstretched palm.
"Marcus—" I started.
And then, something shattered within him. A flicker, a spark. His eyes darkened, retreating into the fortress of his resolve. The gun snapped back up, a barrier between us once more.
"It was her mother," he spat, the word like a bullet. “Victoria. She wanted the scandal to go away. She wanted the case closed and asked me to say I did it.”
He wheeled around, a blur of motion and turmoil. He shoved past the frozen bodies of guests, their collective gasp a discordant choir to his retreat. The tropical air swallowed him whole as the door slammed shut behind his fleeing form.
"Wait!" My heart lurched, adrenaline surging.
I cursed under my breath, my mind already racing through the next steps. The chase wasn't over; it had just taken an unexpected detour.
Chapter34
THEN:
Isla Montgomery leaned on the balcony railing, her gaze fixed on the horizon. The ocean breeze teased strands of her hair, pulling them loose from the careless bun atop her head. She inhaled deeply, the air filling her lungs and attempting to cleanse the emotions that churned within her.
Her fingers gripped the wooden rail, knuckles turning white as she braced herself against the weight of another day spent under her mother's scrutinizing stare. She wondered about Javier. She hadn’t heard from him since he was escorted off the island, and part of her wanted to take the boat to the mainland and find him, leaving all this behind. She missed him terribly, and every day dragged along while she wondered where he was and if he was okay.
"Another day," she whispered to herself, the words barely audible above the lull of the waves below. "Just another day."
With a resolve that seemed to solidify with each step, Isla turned her back to the ocean and walked through the sliding doors into the house. The transition was jarring—the open expanse of nature replaced by the claustrophobic luxury of the island home.
The kitchen was awash with the scent of sizzling bacon and freshly brewed coffee. Clementine stood at the stove while Victoria sat at the counter, reading the newspaper, her posture rigid with an elegance that felt out of place in the domesticity of the morning. Her ice-blue eyes did not waver from the paper in her hand, even as Isla entered.
"Good morning, Mother," Isla said, her voice carrying a brightness she didn't feel. She had hoped Aunt Bea would be there, but she was nowhere to be seen. She hated being alone with her mother these days. She felt like she was constantly being judged and found to be inadequate.
"Morning," Victoria responded without lifting her gaze, her tone clipped.
Isla hesitated, feeling the familiar sting of dismissal. She reached for a cup hanging above the coffee maker.
"It looks like it'll be a beautiful day. Maybe we could go for a walk along the shore later?"
"Perhaps," Victoria replied, though the indifference in her voice suggested otherwise. Clementine plated the breakfast with mechanical efficiency, ensuring each strip of bacon lay parallel to the next.
"Actually, I was thinking?—"
"Thinking is a dangerous pastime, Isla," Victoria cut in, her back still to her daughter. "Focus on what needs to be done, not on idle whims."
"Right," Isla murmured, chastened.
Aunt Bea had told her that her mother might be able to understand her if she tried talking to her. It didn’t feel like it. Isla poured herself some coffee in one of the pristine white cups. She knew better than to press further when it came to her mother; the barriers between them were as unyielding as the walls of the house.
"Breakfast is ready," Clementine announced, setting the table. Isla took her seat, the chair scraping slightly against the tile floor—an abrasive sound in the silent tension of the kitchen.
Isla's mind wandered as they ate, but she remained vigilant, aware that any sign of distraction would be met with a sharp reprimand. Instead, she focused on the warmth of the coffee as it slid down her throat, willing it to ignite some spark of courage within her to face the rest of the day.
Where are you, Javier? Do you miss me as much as I miss you?
