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“A disgraceful tradition. Started with the original settlers, they say.” Mrs. Fletcher’s mouth tightens. “They sign contracts beforehand. It’s all arranged through that club. The women consent to be... pursued. The men wear these bone masks, like stags. They whistle when they’re coming—this eerie melody you can hear through the trees.” Her voice drops. “Once it starts, there’s no stopping. When the man catches the woman...” Mrs. Fletcher scoffs. “The next morning, these elaborate baskets appear on their porches. Expensive jewelry, cash, wine. The wealthy men try to outdo each other with their generosity. As if that makes it civilized.” She slams a cabinet door. “Some claim it’s all consensual fun, island tradition dating back generations. Others say it’s just an excuse for debauchery.”

My mouth goes dry. “And this happens in our maze?” I don’t remember ever seeing it happen on our property when I was young. I can’t imagine my mother, and most definitely not my father allowing it to happen.

“Yeah well… this house is vacant most of the time minus the bare staff. So… it’s become a perfect playground. After the Harvest Moon, usually, but I’ve heard rumors they’re starting early this year. Summer equinox.” She resumes unpacking groceries. “Your father should sell this place. It’s not goodfor your health, all this damp and that ridiculous club they opened in town. Trading on the island’s worst impulses, calling it ‘tradition’ or ‘culture’.” She slams a can of soup onto the counter. “As if running half-naked through the night is culture.”

I nod, not trusting myself to respond without revealing I already know all about The Hunt, The Vault, or the fact that now I’m scared even more about the bloody body being found by some masked man and his white-gowned prey. If this is true, people will be everywhere, potentially disturbing Liam’s grave.

“I think I need to lie down,” I say, rubbing my temples. “It’s been a long day.”

Mrs. Fletcher’s expression softens immediately. “Of course, dear. I’ll fix something light for dinner. You rest.”

I retreat to my room, where I pace for the next few hours, too anxious to rest. Outside my window, the search parties gradually disperse as dusk approaches. I can bet money they’ll be back tomorrow, probably with more men and equipment.

Mrs. Fletcher calls me down for dinner—a simple soup and fresh bread. She fills the meal with island gossip, carefully avoiding any more talk of The Hunt or Liam’s disappearance. I nod at the right moments, but my mind is elsewhere.

After dinner, I escape to my room again, claiming fatigue. It’s not entirely a lie. The stress of Viktor’squestioning has worn me out. But as soon as I close my door, I pull out my phone.

I text Damiano first:Are the search parties gone?

His reply comes quickly:For now. Stay in the house.

I stare at the screen, unsure what to say next. Last night feels like a dream. The herbs, the greenhouse, Damiano’s hands on me, Flint watching us through the glass. What had gotten into me? I’ve never been that bold, that shameless with anyone before.

It had to be the herbs. Or the shock of killing someone. It couldn’t have been just... him. Though when I close my eyes, I can still see his tattoos under my fingertips, still taste his skin.

I pace my room, thinking. The search parties are a problem, but The Hunt could be worse—people specifically in the maze, possibly discovering Liam’s grave. I need more information.

Feeling restless and knowing there’s no way I can simply go to bed and sleep right now, I make a decision that will surely piss off Damiano. I grab my warmest cardigan and slip my phone into my pocket, then text Mrs. Fletcher that I’m going for a drive to clear my head after the stressful day. Before she can protest, I’m out the back door and heading down the gravel path toward the Jeep.

The Vault is the last place I should be going, but if I want to know about The Hunt, and if there is a way to keep the participants off my property, I need totalk to someone who might be able to make that happen. Someone who is connected to it.

And, if I’m being honest with myself, there’s another reason I’m headed there. After what happened in the greenhouse—the three of us locked in that strange moment—I need to talk to Flint. I need to understand what I saw passing between him and Damiano, what I felt when he watched us.

Just curiosity, I tell myself as I follow the coastal road toward town. Just getting information to protect ourselves…

Chapter 17

Briar

The Vault’s exterior doesn’t live up to its reputation—just an old bank building on Main Street with discreet lighting and a simple sign. No line outside, no bouncers visible—nothing to suggest what happens behind those heavy doors.

I hesitate at the entrance, aware of how stupid this plan is. What am I even doing here? I’m about to turn back when the door opens, and a couple steps out—both in designer clothes that scream money and status. They barely glance at me as they pass.

Before the door can close, I slip inside.

The entryway is a small, dimly lit space with a sleek desk. A woman with impeccable makeup and a black dress sits behind it, typing on a tablet. She looks up, her expression carefully neutral as she takes in my casual clothes.

“Membership card?”

“I don’t have one. I’m Briar Waters.”

Her eyebrows lift slightly at my last name. “Waters? Maxwell Waters’s daughter?”

I nod, trying to project confidence I don’t feel. “I’m looking for Flint Bishop. He works here.”

She studies me for a moment, then taps something on her tablet. “One moment, Ms. Waters.”

While she makes a call, I take in the entrance. Subtle lighting, expensive art on the walls, the scent of something woodsy and expensive in the air. Everything designed to signal exclusivity.