Page 5 of Fire Island (Fire Island #2)

Five

EVIE

B ig plans. Should have known they would go sideways at the first opportunity. After gaining an inch toward my freedom, Timothy threw Rapunzel back in the tower after he had his way, gawking at me through his release. And threw away the key, so to speak.

He hasn’t returned since the wee hours of the morning.

Apparently, my powers of seduction are a little rusty. Instead of the freedom—or at least a longer leash—I thought I would gain, I’m back in the lantern room, watching yet another sunset in captivity.

All I feel is dirty. Filthy from his gaze. Like I need to scrub myself clean with a wire brush and shed these layers of myself to the tub floor. As the ever-reliable whir and click of the lamp come on, I shield my eyes and reposition to face away from the retina-burning blazing light.

The breeze tangles through my hair as the light sweeps across my back, casting its iridescent brilliance over the Atlantic Ocean. The world is such an enormous place. I’m barely a blip on its surface. One that will come and go, never to be noticed by Mother Nature.

Noticed.

Who would notice a light shining?

Who would notice one that doesn’t?

The watchhouse? The shipping lanes to the east of Fire Island...

Crawling, I hunt for some way to shut the lamp off. The chain to my cuffed hands drags as I crawl my way along the floor. Timothy said he wouldn’t take the last piece of Cal... Because it would be missed?

Not by me.

He meant the Coast Guard would realize it’s not coming on.

That’s it, my chance to signal for help. Or at the very least, to get someone—anyone—to come out here.

With both hands, I pry open the base, looking for something to break, snap, bend, or undo.

All I find is a bunch of wires.

Wires that no doubt run straight to the generator, and all that voltage.

Shit .

Knowing my luck, I’ll pull the wrong one and electrocute myself.

No thank you, I want to live. I want to leave this island on my own two feet, my heart beating safely in my chest.

The light sweeps around again—its timing never fails.

The lamp, in all its shimmering glory, oscillates on her axis like the queen she is. The heart of this lighthouse. The last connection I have to Cal. The one thing he had to ground his life and give him meaning over the last twenty painful years.

She swings around, shining right through me.

Sometimes, the queen must be sacrificed to save the maiden. One life for another.

One soul for another.

What about the vessels relying on her tonight? If they run aground and people are in jeopardy because of me?

No. Evie.

I can’t think like that.

Besides, not anymore. Technology and safety protocols would make it unlikely...

I drop back to the floor, scrambling toward the maintenance cupboard. I fling it open and hunt for the heaviest, longest thing I can find. The thing that will do the most damage. May as well keep it after, too, in case I need to defend myself.

I pull out bunches of rags and brushes.

Nope.

Tossing the contents of the cupboard behind me, I send my bound hands into the dim cavity, hunting for whatever is left inside.

My fingers brush over a tin surface.

Hope blooms like a forest flower after much-needed rain. I grab a small handle, sliding the box forward. A toolbox.

Yes!

Oh my god, yes.

I flip the lid open. To my delight, a host of heavy metal tools sit in the bottom. Screwdrivers, pliers, and... a wrench.

A long, heavy, solid wrench.

Perfect.

Shoving the cupboard contents back and shutting the door, I stand, shielding my eyes as the lamp swings back round, the wrench firmly gripped with both hands.

Lowering my hands, I shift on my feet.

I can do this.

I can smash the last piece of the man I love to smithereens.

To save myself.

He would be telling me to do it. If he was here, he would growl, “Do it already, mo nighean. What are you waiting for?”

That thought has me caving in on myself. God, I miss him.

And . . . I can’t do it.

I can’t.

Sinking to the floor, I cradle the tool to my chest. Tears burn and swell. I let them fall, rocking on my seat. The lamp turns overhead, never wavering.

I hide my face in my hands, letting the wrench clatter to the floor.

I have to.

I have to.

I have to do this.

With a raw scream, I push to my feet, swiping the wrench from the floor.

Waiting until her back is turned, her light penetrating deep into the Atlantic, I rush her from behind.

I slam the bulky, destructive head of the tool into the planes of glass that make up her crown. It cracks but doesn’t shatter.

She swings around, as if turning back to face her opponent.

I duck my head, shielding my eyes. And when she is careless enough to show me her back again, I smash down hard. Glass splinters, showering across the wooden floor.

I swing again, the heady craze of something manic taking over. I bring the wrench down, over and over, into the heart of her shining body.

The tinkle of raining glass exploding under the weight of my attack fills the air.

The light flickers as I reach her heart and destroy it in one final, deadly swing. The long, bright beam dies, fluttering out like the desperate wings of a butterfly taking its last breaths.

Fitting.

As the coastline fades into darkness, I stand, the metal handle hanging between my fingers. Tears pouring over my cheeks. Blood thundering through my head. Breaths burning through my too-small lungs.

The queen is dead.

The heart and soul of Fire Island is obliterated.

Now, I wait.

The smallest sliver of hope is coaxed to life as the gravity of what I’ve done settles in.

Glass shards and chunks of lamp cover most of the floor. I shove as much as I can to the side with the wrench. I make a clean path to the cupboard and pluck out a brush and sweep the glass in a pile to one side. Kneeling by the remnants of what I’ve done, I bow my head.

A gesture of sadness. My sorrow over losing the last piece of Cal. The fraction of hope I cling to like my life preserver with her gone. And she absolutely is.

Timothy may not frighten me like he used to, but he is still in control. And I have no idea how to take that back without a fight.

One I’m not sure I’d be able to win.

“Sorry, Cal,” I whisper to the pile of glass, contemplating what I’ve done, and what I might still have to do. As if Callum can hear me, the wind whips through the lantern room, tugging at my clothes, sweeping over my wet cheeks, and drying my tears.

“Get up!” Bony fingers sink like vicious talons around my upper arm, ripping me from sleep and up off the floor. “You did this!”

I scramble to my feet, shoving my glasses up my nose. “Get your hands off me!” I try to pull away from his hold, but he’s stronger than he looks. He shakes me, his face so close his breath hits my cheek. I lean away.

The door is open. He drags me toward the stairs, not looking back.

I glance over my shoulder at the wrench on the floor that had been inches from my fingers.

The one now out of reach. The morning sunlight washes the small room in its golden glow.

But it disappears as I stumble down the stairwell, dragged behind the hysterical man in front of me.

“You have no idea what you’ve done.” Timothy shakes his head. “Now we have to move on. We were supposed to have time. This is all your fault. Why do you keep screwing things up?” He stops on the tread below me, looking up, his jaw clenched, anger lining his pale eyes.

From this vantage point, I could lash out. Knock him backward down the stairs. I brace against the railing and?—

“Stupid bitch.” He drags me downward, and it takes all I have to not topple down the metal stairs myself.

My feet wobble under shaky legs as I descend.

The cuffs binding me press into my skin, scraping along the knobby bone of my wrist. We reach the living room, and I stall out just past the last tread, taking in the trashed home.

I saw it last time he dragged me through here. Now, with the lamp destroyed, it feels as if Timothy is right—this is all my fault.

With a firm grip still on the chain between my hands, Timothy crosses the living room, grabbing a backpack and a few items.

It’s then I hear the hum of a boat.

A big boat.

The Coast Guard boat?

Em . . .

“Emmett!”

The second the first syllable passes my lips, Timothy swings around. The back of his hand slams into my cheek.

Ringing starts in my ears. My head spins as I sway on my feet. Copper blooms in my mouth, and I swallow metallic liquid down.

“Shut the hell up,” he hisses, slipping a hand into the side of the backpack, producing a handgun.

I gasp, cowering as he wields it in my face.

“You don’t make a sound.” His face is feral, livid mania sinking his wide eyes into their sockets.

I nod, biting down hard on my bottom lip. I barely register the burn as more copper laces through my mouth. Checking outside is still clear through the cracked-open front door, he pushes through, the tip of his gun now stabbing into my ribs.

I try and fail to hold in a whimper when I see the Coast Guard boat closing in on the jetty.

From here, I can see someone aboard, but their back is turned. Timothy pulls me toward the forest tree line. No...

“Emmett,” I gasp. The name barely passes my lips before fading out.

Desperation claws at my insides. Rendering me almost mute.

Timothy glances at the jetty before his glare lands on me. “Keep your mouth shut, you stupid fucking slut.” Then, as if talking to himself, he mutters, “Another one to take down. How many will she have before she has me... God, he said she was ours.”

I stare at the side of his face, horror lancing through me, impaling my senses.

He’s not just a stalker, he’s lost it.

Who is he ?

Caught up in some fantasy where he’s the chosen one, and I’m the prize. Everyone else is simply another obstacle for him to eliminate.

I feign a limp, trying to slow us down. To give Emmett time to see me. To see us.

To realize I’m here, and I never left. That I need his help.

The gun reaffirms its position at my ribs, and I close my gaping mouth.

Emmett . . . he’s so close.

Em finally disembarks, carrying a load in his arms, as Timothy pulls me into the forest past the tree line. Sobs tumble from me in bouts of despair.

I want to scream for Em. I want to turn on this weedy, sick little man and tear him to pieces. But amidst my panic, I simply hover, frozen.

Unable to do either.