Page 87 of Everything You Hate
“How long ago?”
“Just now. I called you right— Dean, they were just standing there. They wanted me to see them.”
“Are your doors locked?”
“Yes. I checked. The slider’s locked.”
“Stay on the line. I’m coming.”
“I’m okay. I’m?—”
“You’re not okay. Stay on the fucking line.”
I’m already down the dock, boots hitting the planks hard enough to echo. The harbor’s quiet. Most of the boats are dark. A few cabin lights burn through portholes—night people, insomniacs, the island’s usual suspects. None of them matter right now. What matters is the sound of her breathing in my ear and the five minutes between here and the Tidewater.
“I’m getting in the truck,” I say. “Don’t hang up.”
“I won’t.”
The truck starts on the first try. Small mercies. I back out of the marina lot with the phone wedged between my shoulder and ear, headlights cutting across empty asphalt. The road to the Tidewater runs along the waterfront, past the Driftwood and Brine & Bean and the cluster of shops that should be dark at this hour but aren’t. Lights on in Wick & Wave. A group of tourists still out with flashlights, scanning the beach below the boardwalk like the treasure’s going to wash up with the tide.
Scarlett’s quiet on the other end. I can hear the hotel room around her—the hum of the air conditioner, the faint creak of the building settling. She’s sitting on that bed. I know exactly howshe’s sitting. Back straight. Hands in her lap. The way she holds herself when she’s scared and trying not to show it.
“Talk to me,” I say.
“There’s nothing to talk about. Someone was on my balcony. Now they’re not.”
“Did you hear anything? Footsteps? The railing?”
“No. Nothing. I just woke up and they were there.”
“Could it have been?—”
“Don’t.” Her voice sharpens. “Don’t tell me I dreamed it. I didn’t dream it.”
“I wasn’t going to say that.”
The Tidewater’s parking lot is half full. Tourists’ vehicles, mostly. SUVs with out-of-state plates, roof racks loaded with gear. A drone case sits on the hood of a Range Rover, lid open, the machine itself nowhere in sight. I park in the fire lane because I don’t give a shit about parking etiquette at twelve-thirty in the morning when the woman I?—
When Scarlett is scared.
The lobby’s got lights on. A night clerk behind the front desk, head bent over a phone. He looks up when I come through the door. Doesn’t recognize me, or doesn’t care to. I take the stairs two at a time. Her floor. Her hallway. The carpet’s too thick. My boots make no sound.
I knock on her door. Three sharp raps.
She opens it before the last knock finishes.
She’s standing there in my sweatshirt, hair coming loose from its knot, eyes wide and too bright. No makeup. The dark circles I’ve gotten used to seeing have deepened into something that looks like bruising. Her hands are steady. That’s the worst part. She’s got herself so locked down she’s not even shaking.
I step inside and close the door behind me.
“Show me.”
She points to the balcony. The sliding glass door stands closed, curtain pulled back. Beyond it, three feet of concrete and a metal railing and the harbor spread out below, dock lights strung along the water like dropped matches.
I check the lock first. It’s engaged. The handle doesn’t wiggle. The track is clean—no scratches, no marks where someone might have forced it. I slide the door open and step outside.
The night air bites. Cold salt wind off the water. The balcony’s empty. The concrete’s dry—no dew, no footprints, no scuff marks on the railing where someone might have climbed over. I run my hand along the top rail. Nothing. No grease, no salt, no trace that anyone’s been here in the last twenty-four hours.
