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I head to the road, walking back toward town. My clothes are stained but not obviously with blood. Could be anything. Dirt. Grease. My hands are cleanenough now. I scrubbed them in a puddle that had formed at the edge of the property. Not perfect, but it will do until I can get to a proper sink.

About half a mile from Windward estate, I pull out my phone. The one I use for work, not the one with all our texts about covering up Liam. I dial the island police, my voice steady when they answer.

“I want to report something,” I say, disguising my tone slightly. “I was up near Windward Estate, the Waters place? Saw someone in one of those Hunt masks stumbling around the maze during my own Hunt. Looked pretty wasted. Just wanted to let someone know. People shouldn’t be wandering around there drunk. Private property and all.”

I hang up before they can ask questions. The call serves its purpose—draws attention to the maze without mentioning any screams that would contradict our accident story. Let the police find him by “coincidence” while checking the property based on a vague tip about trespassers.

The fog swallows me as I continue walking, heading back to The Vault where I’m supposed to be working. I need to establish my alibi, be seen by others. My mind is already constructing the story—I stepped out for air, the party was too intense tonight, needed a break from the Heathens madness.

Behind me, Windward estate stands dark and silent, its secrets multiplying beneath the moonlight. Another night, another Bastian brother. Will this be the last one? Or are we caught in some sick cycle thatwill keep playing out until there’s nothing left of any of us?

I don’t know. But what I do know is that I’d do it again, kill Viktor all over again, if it meant keeping Damiano and Briar safe. The thought should scare me, but instead, it settles something inside me—a certainty I haven’t felt in years.

Chapter 31

Briar

The sun rises over Heathens Hollow, casting long shadows across the maze where Viktor Bastian’s body lies, arranged to look like a terrible accident. I watch from my bedroom window as the first police cruiser pulls up the long driveway, its lights flashing but siren silent. An officer I don’t recognize steps out, followed by two deputies.

My hands shake as I step away from the window. The bruises on my wrists have darkened overnight, purple black against my pale skin. My split lip throbs with each heartbeat. In the mirror, I barely recognize myself—eyes hollow with exhaustion, hair tangled from the night’s events, dried blood still crusted at the corner of my mouth despite my attempts to wash it away.

I didn’t sleep. None of us did.

After Flint left to create his alibi at The Vault, Damiano and I cleaned up in the greenhouse. Wescrubbed Viktor’s blood from under our fingernails, stripped off our stained clothes and burned them in the old drum behind the toolshed. Then we returned to the house separately—me through the front door, him circling around to slip in through the kitchen.

If anyone asks, we spent the night together. Just the two of us while Flint worked his shift.

I hear car doors slam outside. No Mrs. Fletcher to announce the police—she’s away in Anacortes, which makes this both easier and harder. No witnesses in the house, but also no buffer between us and the authorities.

I pull myself together and head downstairs to meet them before they can knock. Damiano appears from the kitchen, our eyes meeting in silent communication. His throat bears visible bruises despite the black turtleneck he’s thrown on. We’ve prepared for this moment all night, rehearsing our story until it feels almost like truth.

I open the front door just as an officer raises his hand to knock.

“Can I help you?” I ask, feigning confusion at their presence.

The officer, older with salt-and-pepper hair and a weathered face, looks surprised to see me. “Ms. Waters? I’m Officer Miller with Heathens Hollow Police. I’m afraid there’s been an incident on your property.”

“An incident?” I step back, allowing them into the foyer. “What kind of incident?”

“We received an anonymous call about someone in your maze last night,” he explains as the deputies hang back, eyes scanning the entrance hall. “When we investigated this morning, we found a body.”

I let my face show shock, then horror. It’s not entirely an act. Even knowing what we did, what we planned, the reality of it—a man dead, police in my home—hits me with fresh force.

“A body? Whose body?” My words shake appropriately.

“Viktor Bastian,” Miller says, watching my reaction closely. “Did you know him?”

“We’d met,” I say carefully. “At The Vault. He worked security there.”

Damiano steps forward, coming to stand beside me. “What happened to him?” He sounds calm, despite the circumstances.

Miller’s eyes flick to Damiano, noting his presence with interest. “It appears Mr. Bastian fell and hit his head on one of the stone benches in your maze. We believe he was participating in The Hunt last night and may have been intoxicated.”

“The Hunt? Here?” I wrap my arms around myself, feigning distress. “I had no idea anyone was on the property.”

One of the deputies, younger with calculating eyes, speaks up. “We found a red light bulb above your front porch, Ms. Waters. That’s the signal for The Hunt participants, isn’t it?”

Damiano’s hand finds thesmall of my back, steadying me. “We put that up,” he says smoothly. “For our own private Hunt. Just the three of us.”