She should. This was ridiculous—standing in a hallway, caught in some silent standoff over nothing more than a glance.
She held it anyway.
Zach didn’t move. Didn’t soften. His expression remained what it always was—controlled, unreadable—but there was an intensity in it now that hadn’t been there during the meeting. Something more focused. More deliberate.
Like he was assessing her.
Evaluating something.
Emma felt it in the base of her spine, awareness sharpening into something almost physical. Her pulse ticked up, steady but unmistakable.
This is a mistake.The thought came clean and immediate. She didn’t know what kind yet. Didn’t know if it was professional or personal or something else entirely. Just that it was one.
She raised a brow at Zach, letting her lips tilt up a little. She would not be cowed.
Inside, David said something too low to make out, but Emma saw the moment it landed. Zach’s jaw tightened.
His attention returned to the conversation, to the radar, to the storm building beyond the glass.
Just like that, the moment was over.
Emma pushed through the double doors and stepped onto the open walkway connecting the administrative wing to the main building. She paused at the railing, looking out toward the water.
The horizon was gone now.
Sea and sky blurred into a single slate-gray expanse, the line between them erased by haze and distance. The ocean looked heavier somehow. Slower. Like something gathering beneath the surface.
Kate’s voice echoed in her mind.The wind keeps rising…
Emma tightened her grip on the folder in her hand.It’s just weather.A typical summer squall. Seasonal patterns she’d seen a hundred times before.
And yet?—
The wind shifted suddenly, sharper now, tugging at her hair.
Behind her, the ocean darkened.
The pressure dropped, slow and certain. The sense of mistake sharpened.
Chapter 7
Storm Watch
Emma almost missed it.
The folded note lay half-hidden beneath the edge of her bungalow door, the corner lifting and settling with the morning breeze. She’d been mentally rehearsing her interview questions for the afternoon, already three hours ahead, as she fished her keys from her tote bag.
She picked it up, assuming it was a maintenance notice or a misplaced staff memo that someone had slipped under the wrong door.
The paper was cheap—standard printer stock, nothing distinctive. No envelope. One single, precise fold.
She opened it.
Emma Vann?—
You shouldn’t be here.
This island isn’t yours.
