Page 98 of Everything You Hate
The tallest of the three, a man with a sunburn and the entitlement of someone who has never been told no, steps forward. “Ma’am, we have every right to search public?—”
“This isn’t public.” Dean’s voice cuts across the yard. He positions himself between the man and Shea, his body angled to block, his height leveraged to its full advantage. “This is private property. You’re trespassing, and you’ve caused criminal damage. Those are facts, not opinions.”
The man blinks and his confidence wavers now that he’s facing a tall, muscular man rather than a petite woman. “The map says—W-we didn’t know this wasn’t public property?—”
“Bullshit.” Dean pulls out his phone and snaps a picture of each of them. “Get out of here now, or I call Police Chief McNamara, give him your pictures, and let him decide what happens next. Fair warning, he won’t be as friendly as I am. Your choice.”
The trespassers exchange glances. The sunburned man motions to the others to pack up.
I stand at the edge of the ruined garden and count the holes. Eight. Maybe nine. Each one a violation. Tulip bulbs lie scattered on the grass, their papery skins split, the pale shoots inside exposed to air they weren’t ready for.
Shea picks one up and cradles it like a loved one, her shoulders curving around it as if she could save it with her body heat.
This is her home. Not just a business. Not a set piece for tourists. She built this place with her hands. She tends these gardens. She folds those towels. She makes beds with corners so tight even the toughest drill sergeant would be pleased, and she does it because the work matters to her, because taking care of things is how Shea Haven moves through the world.
And now strangers have dug a trench through her flower bed because they think a treasure might be buried under her home.
Because of me.
The trespassers gather their equipment. They mutter. They glance at the house. One of them—a woman with the righteousness of the truly convinced—looks at the foundation one last time like she’s mentally bookmarking it for later.
Their truck kicks up gravel as it pulls onto the main road.
Silence settles over the yard.
Shea stands. She brushes her hands on her jeans and looks at the damage with the expression of someone doing mental math on repair costs and coming up short.
“I’ll fix it,” Dean says.
She shakes her head. “I’ve got it.”
“Shea—”
“I said I’ve got it.” She picks up the abandoned shovel and drives it into the soil with more force than necessary. “You should get her inside.”
She means me. She doesn’t look at me when she says it.
Dean seemed torn between comforting his niece and taking care of me, so I make the decision for him. I turn away and go inside, climbing up to my room on autopilot. The stairs creak under my weight. Room three’s door stands open. The brass bed. The quilt. The window that looks out over the back garden where, until this morning, flowers and vegetables grew in neat rows.
I sit on the edge of the bed, stare at the wall, and replay every moment of the last few weeks in my mind.
I see Piper’s bookstore window, spray-painted with grammatically incorrect insults. I see the rag in her hand, scrubbing, the pink water running down her arm.
I see Shea’s flower bed, dug up by strangers who thought they had a right.
I see the drones over No Name. The treasure hunters in the dinghy. Dean and everyone on the island with a boat searching the water for them.
Jasper’s hand on the tree beside my head. His breath in my face. The certainty in his eyes when he told me I wouldn’t leave the island in one piece if I didn’t give them the journal.
Malcolm’s smile. The gentle, paternal pressure of his hand on my shoulder as he explained that the story matters more than the truth.
I need to fix this.
I stand up. Open the closet. Pull my suitcase from the shelf and set it on the bed. The zipper rasps. The interior smells like my apartment in Los Angeles, a smell I haven’t missed because I’ve been too busy falling in love with this island.
I begin to pack. Jeans folded into thirds. Sweaters rolled. The laptop goes into its case. The chargers coil into neat loops.
I’ll write a post as I make a graceful exit. A new destination. Somewhere warm, maybe. Somewhere more beautiful than drizzly Port Haven. Somewhere better equipped to handle an influx of tourists. My followers will follow. They always do. The treasure frenzy will redirect. The island will go quiet.
