Page 17 of Hearts on the Line (The Maverick Key #1)

Maddie

Hannah and I wave goodbye as I step off her porch and start walking down the narrow sandy road to my cottage.

We just finished going through all the moving boxes I brought over for our girls’ night while we drank wine and watched scary movies.

My purse holds several old school notebooks, each containing keys to the code Nathan and I created as kids.

Even though it’s late, I’m eager to decipher Nathan’s coded notes tonight.

A few hours of focused effort should do the trick.

I also found some old library books of his, including science texts.

One dogeared chapter covered the myth of Atlantis.

There was an illustration that seemed more like science fiction than science, featuring people in white robes gathered around an object with etchings that look just like those on the stone I found among Nathan’s things.

The more I find of his past, the stranger this all becomes.

My thoughts return to Scott. On our fishing trip, his tough guarded shell had softened, revealing a glimpse of vulnerability and fun.

My heart races as I think about our swim and how we nearly kissed.

Not a quick, sweet peck like I’d given him at the bonfire, but a real kiss.

He wanted to—I know he did—but it wasn’t the right time.

I shake my head to clear my daydreams, the warmth of the memories shielding me from the cool night air. I’ve been on Maverick Key for two weeks, yet Scott Rickter already occupies more space in my mind than I care to admit.

The walk home is quiet, with long, dark shadows stretching under the swaying palms. Gravel crunches beneath my sneakers as I get closer to the inn. Ding isn’t with me tonight, making the silence heavier.

Suddenly, a shift in the air prickles the back of my neck, and I sense another presence.

I glance over my shoulder, my steps quickening.

The night’s shadows press closer, and every rustle of leaves is sharper and louder than it should be.

A nervous laugh escapes me. I’m just being paranoid.

I clutch my purse closer, my fingers brushing against the cool leather as if it might somehow protect me.

A twig snaps behind me.

I freeze. Every muscle in my body locks up. My breath catches, and my heart pounds in my throat. I have to know what it is. Slowly, I turn, scanning the shadows. Nothing moves except the palm fronds, their rustling magnified in the stillness.

“Hello?” I whimper. My voice is barely more than a whisper, fragile and uncertain.

Silence.

Except for distant waves and chirping cicadas. Swallowing hard, my mouth dry, I force my feet to keep moving. The road stretches ahead, now endless, my cottage and the inn still not in sight. My breathing grows louder in my ears as I focus on my steps.

There’s a harsh scuff of heavy shoes against gravel. Fear jolts through me, and this time, I don’t pause. I don’t want to know who or what is behind me.

I walk faster. Just a little further.

The glow of my porch lamp is finally visible through the trees ahead. Relief floods through me—but it’s fleeting. The weight of unseen eyes presses against my back, suffocating and insistent. There’s a sudden rustle in the bushes to my left. I jump, my breath hitching.

Spinning around, I peer through the thick brush. “Who’s there?” My voice is louder this time, edged with fear.

More silence.

Then—movement. A tall, fleeting shadow flashes to the side of my vision, slipping deeper into the trees.

Now, I don’t stop. Panic surges through me, and adrenaline propels my legs forward.

My sneakers slip against the gravel as I sprint the last stretch to my cottage.

My lungs burn with every gulp of air, and my heartbeat roars in my ears as I stumble up the porch steps.

My hands tremble as I fumble for my keys, the cold metal slipping through my fingers before I get the right one into the lock. The door swings open, and I throw myself inside, slamming it shut. My trembling hands twist the deadbolt into place.

I’m safe.

My gaze sweeps the room, and the air in my lungs turns to ice.

The cottage has been ransacked.

Papers are scattered across the floor, drawers yanked out and left hanging. The couch cushions are tossed aside, and the bookshelves topple over each other, their contents scattered. My mind struggles to make sense of it.

Then—A figure stands in the shadows near the open window. It’s a man, but I can’t make out any details of his face or body. I catch a faint glint of metal in his hand and hold my breath.

Moving slowly, he creeps closer to the window toward me.

I scream.