“That’s on the coast?”
“Barrier island. Quiet town, from what she said.”
“Good. Don’t announce it online. Don’t tag the location. Keep your travel plans limited to people you trust. If you decide to go, I’d also recommend letting your assistant and publicist know that all schedule details stay private until further notice.”
My mind immediately begins sorting through names, calendars, obligations, passwords, footage, deadlines. The old Kara would already be making a spreadsheet. The old Kara would turn fear into logistics because logistics can be controlled. But my hands are still trembling around a cup of terrible coffee.
“I’ll call my assistant,” I say.
By eight, Talia has moved three meetings, rescheduled a brand lunch, and promised twice that the world will not implode if I approve cookbook edits from a beach cottage.
By nine, Vanessa has connected me with the owner of the Sunbreak Harbor rental, who is apparently delighted to have a last-minute booking from someone she recognizes but is gracious enough not to gush about it.
By ten-fifteen, I have rented a white coastal cottage called The Sandpiper for two weeks.
By eleven, I return to my house with Mercer and two Sentinel guards to pack. Walking through my front door in daylight should be easier. I quickly discover it isn’t.
The house looks almost too bright, sunlight spilling across polished floors and gleaming counters, making the whole placeseem innocent. The police cruisers are gone now, leaving only Sentinel’s marked SUV in the drive and the security van near the garage. Without flashing lights and uniformed officers, the violation feels quieter, more private, almost more disturbing.
I pack quickly because lingering feels devastating. Clothes. Toiletries. Chargers. The current cookbook draft. A few pieces of jewelry I don’t want left behind. I make a point of not looking at the knife block when I pass through the kitchen.
Mercer locks the house behind us and hands me a temporary access card for Sentinel’s mobile command app, explaining things about remote alerts and system updates while I nod as if I’m absorbing them.
I am not absorbing them. I am thinking about gaining some distance.
The drive out of Orlando feels strange, like I am leaving in the middle of my own life without permission. I take my SUV because the idea of being chauffeured today makes me feel too exposed, too visible, too much like a person being handled instead of a woman making a choice. Mercer doesn’t love it, but he doesn’t fight me either. He only checks the vehicle, confirms my route, and tells me to call if anything feels off.
Anything. The word follows me for miles.
At first the roads are familiar enough to make me doubt everything. I could be overreacting. Maybe I’ll arrive at this rental, sit on a porch for two days, and realize I fled my home because fear made everything bigger than it was. Perhaps in a week I’ll laugh about this with Vanessa, embarrassed but relieved, while new locks and stronger cameras make the house feel mine again.
Then my mind supplies the image of my lingerie drawer hanging open. The photographs. The missing knife.
I keep driving. The city thins gradually, traffic giving way to long stretches of road lined with palms, scrub, and sun-flattenedgrass. The sky opens wider the farther I go, bright blue brushed with thin white clouds. By the time the first signs for Sunbreak Harbor appear, the air itself seems different, lighter somehow, as if salt has slipped through the vents and settled against my skin.
The road narrows as I cross the bridge onto the island. Water glitters on both sides, blue-green and blinding beneath the afternoon sun. Fishing boats move lazily through the channel, their wakes spreading in soft white lines. Ahead, a candy-striped lighthouse rises beyond a cluster of pastel buildings, cheerful and improbable against the sky. For the first time in almost twenty-four hours, my shoulders loosen.
Sunbreak Harbor looks like the kind of place people put on postcards and refrigerator magnets. Golf carts buzz along side streets. Families in beach clothes cross toward a weathered boardwalk strung with flags. A row of food trucks sits parked near a small green space where someone is setting up folding tables beneath strings of lights.
The marina is crowded with sailboats, sleek speedboats, and fishing charters rocking gently against their slips. It is busy, but not Orlando busy. Alive, but not overwhelming.
I lower my window at the next light, and humid coastal air floods the car, warm and briny, carrying the distant scent of fried seafood, sunscreen, and something sweet from a bakery I can’t see.
A gull cries overhead, sharp and rude. Somewhere nearby, live music drifts from a patio, lazy guitar notes melting into the afternoon heat.
The Sandpiper sits on the quieter side of the island, past the main boardwalk and beyond a curve of road lined with sea grapes, scrub palms, and low wooden signs weathered by salt and sun. The houses grow larger and farther apart here, mostof them lifted high on pilings with crushed-shell drives tucked beneath them and beach gear stored in the shaded spaces below.
When my GPS tells me I’ve arrived, I slow in front of a pale blue cottage elevated above a parking area on white posts. From the road, it doesn’t look quite like the rental photos. Not worse. Just more practical.
This side faces the street, with a covered place to park, a small storage room, an outdoor shower, coiled hoses, trash bins tucked behind a lattice screen, and a narrow set of stairs leading up to the main level. The pretty parts must be on the other side, the side facing the water. I’m sure that’s where the photographer stood when they took all those perfect listing pictures. That makes me feel better. Less staged and more real.
I pull into the crushed-shell driveway and sit for a moment with both hands on the steering wheel, listening to shells pop beneath the tires as the engine ticks softly. Somewhere beyond the house, hidden by dunes and sea oats, waves roll in and out with a steady rhythm I can hear but not yet see.
The sound reaches me anyway. The ocean … roaring low with patient, constant rhythm.
I climb from the car slowly, my legs stiff from the drive, and retrieve the entry code from the owner’s message. The wooden stairs creak beneath my sandals as I make my way up to the landing. A gull cries overhead, rude and sharp, and warm salt air slips beneath my hair, lifting the damp strands at the back of my neck.
The front door opens on the first try.
