Page 62 of Tangled Past
Chapter Twenty
The lighthouse beam swept across the water in a slow, methodical arc as he emerged from one of the old tunnels that spiderwebbed around the island.
On. Off. On.
He counted the seconds between flashes without thinking about it anymore. Like he’d been doing it for years. Timing things like this calmed the mind. It gave chaos a rhythm.
The safehouse sat just beyond the reach of the strongest light, tucked into the rocky curve of the coastline where the trees bent low, and the land fell away sharply. A forgettable structure. Weathered shingles. Windows darkened against the cold.
Chosen because it felt hidden. Safe.
He almost smiled.
People always misunderstood safety. They thought it lived in distance, isolation, locks, and numbers. They thought it lived in walls.
It never had.
Safety lived in certainty. In knowing where everyone would go when things went wrong, and tonight, he intended to prove just how predictable they were.
He watched from the edge of the trees, his body still, breath controlled. Years ago, he’d learned that the less you moved, the less the world noticed you. He wore the night easily now, like a second skin.
A lone figure stood outside the cottage near the corner of the yard, his shoulders hunched against the cold. A member of the Hope Island Securities team. Alert. Tired. Human. Not yet aware of the danger close by.
The lighthouse beam swept again.
On. Off.
He advanced with a predator’s quiet precision, drawn toward the safehouse where the showdown he’d waited decades for was finally coming due.
???
Maya woke to a sound she couldn’t identify.
The noise sliced through her half-sleep like a blade, dragging her upright with a gasp lodged painfully in her chest. For one disoriented second, she was four again—darkness, storm, something crashing where it shouldn’t. Then she was standing in the safehouse living room, her heart hammering. “Asa?” she whispered.
No answer.
The cottage felt wrong.
Too quiet.
She could hear the wind outside, the surf pounding against the rocks below. She searched the darkness, her heart racing.
A shadow detached itself from the living room.
Her body froze. She couldn’t scream.
A man stood with his hands visible, posture calm, unthreatening in a way that made her skin crawl. His face was hidden in the darkness.
“Easy,” he said quietly.
Her mouth went dry. That voice. It wasn’t memory. It wasn’t imagination. It was recognition—violent and undeniable—tearing through her like a scream she’d swallowed for decades.
She had no doubt that this was the man who murdered Raymond Dutton. The one who had killed all those women. The one who had destroyed her mother.
He studied her with unsettling interest. “You’ve grown.”
Something deep in her chest recoiled. Her voice shut down, the same way it had after she witnessed Raymond’s murder, when the truth was so devastating it left her wordless.
