“That wasn’t there before.” I shoot Douglas a questioning stare. He couldn’t possibly want me to use it.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he says, innocence playing across his face.
“I’ll disappoint you, James.” Though so much of me has transformed, the call of the knife still sings in my ears. “I don’t think I’m strong enough to resist hurting him if he’s among them.”
Douglas straightens, squares his shoulders. His gaze is distant. “The way I see it, you have a right to that one.”
“You want to see the bastard bleed as much as I do,” I tease.
Douglas suppresses a smirk. “I know you’re the one who can do it.And we need to give them the best shot at escape.”
I take the knife in my hand. There’s nothing demonic about it. A tool for gutting fish.
Douglas’s hand hovers over my own. His hand over my hand over the knife that once…
“I’ll scare the rest off,” he promises. “You sentence the brute, then meet me in the lightroom afterward. It’s been too long.”
33Liney
To Distract
Snow crunches under our feet as we enter the Devils Island forest for the last time.
While the trunks of the red maple are sturdy, the wind has ripped most of their leaves off. The undergrowth provides cover, but our heads are easily exposed between the trees.
“Maybe they’re…” I search for a possible other explanation for the men.
“Tourists?” Bridget mouths back, raising a dark brow and shaking her head.
She’s right. The snowstorm was too strong. Whoever left in that weather wanted cover so no one would spot them. No one with good intent would come like this.
Bridget steps around me to the next trunk, her back to it and head whipping from behind her to ahead of us. Quick. Like a squirrel smelling predators on the wind.
I reach out and squeeze her hand. She squeezes back, and then we move to the next trunk.
The forest is long but narrow. The landing group could come within feet of us. Did we choose the correct side to hide? Both of us instinctively took the left, toward the cave. But to the men, that would be the right.
I peer over to the water’s edge. Which side should we hide on to avoid them? Is it my imagination that the waves change and push forward as though telling me to switch sides? Perhaps only a change in the tide for the time of day. Either way, a decision made.
“Bridget.” She’s already two trees ahead of me. I crunch forward. “This way.”
I cut across the width of the forest and, thankfully, I hear Bridget’s quiet steps follow. The men will come up on their right. Sailing’s right of way—too many instincts would tell these harbor men to trample over where we’d stood.
“Liney,” Bridget whispers once we’ve crossed, nearly out of the trees and on the rocks on the other side. “Will they see our footprints? In the snow?”
I’m about to answer when I hear the first branch break ahead.
We cower low. Coins jingle in my pocket. My breath comes out in foggy puffs. The loudest sound is my heart’s rhythm in my ears.
I’ve been wearing James’s boots and trampling over fresh snow. So easy to spot. I take them off, slipping each foot out easily and holding them in my hands. Bridget does the same with hers.
This doesn’t solve the problem, though. The bootprints are still there, and our new footprints will be no less conspicuous.
“Go ahead, crouch at the forest line,” I instruct her. It’s a risk but less than if we’re together. If they catch her, I’ll yell out and distract them. I’m the prize; she’s a stranger to their efforts. “Hide near the boat. Wait for me there.”
“I don’t want to leave—”
More branches break ahead. Loud crunches herald the men moving. They’ll soon be too close to do anything.
