Page 13

“We both need to clean up,” I say, grabbing the cleanest things I can find from my dresser—a black thermal shirt and a pair of sweatpants with a drawstring she can tighten to fit her much smaller frame.

“Bathroom’s through there,” I say, pointing to the only interior door. “There should be towels and hot water if you want to clean up first. Probably best to rinse your hair, too.” I place the clothes on the small table in front of her. “Take your time. I’ll burn these clothes once you’re done.”

She stares at her red-stained hands, turning them over as if seeing them for the first time. “It’s... everywhere.”

“Arterial spray does that,” I say, then immediately regret my bluntness when she flinches. “Sorry. Just... yeah. Go get cleaned up.”

She stares at the clothes, then at me, still not fully present. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

When she doesn’t move, I crouch in front of her, maintaining enough distance not to crowd her. “Hey. Briar. You need to get cleaned up before Damiano gets here. We need to talk about what happens next, and you’ll think clearer once you’re warm and not covered in... that.”

She nods slowly, then stands, gathering the clothes against her chest. “How long do you think before he gets here?”

“Depends how many drunk assholes he has to kick out of your house.” I offer a small smile. “The hot water tank’s small, so don’t take too long.”

When she disappears into the bathroom, I let out a long breath. Fuck. What a night.

I move to the kitchenette, pulling out mugs and tea bags. The cheap herbal shit tastes like grass clippings, but it’s better than nothing. I add honey to both mugs, then a generous splash of whiskey. Medicinal purposes.

The bathroom door opens, and Briar emerges, swimming in my clothes.

She’s washed the blood from her face and hands, but a few dried flecks remain in her hairline.

Her wet hair hangs in dark ropes around her face.

The bruises on her neck are darkening already, forming the distinct pattern of fingertips.

“Better?” I ask.

She nods, folding her arms across her chest.

“Tea’s almost ready. Sit by the fire.”

She does, perching on the edge of the couch nearest the wood stove. The light from the flames makes her look even more ghostly, highlighting the dark circles under her eyes and the pallor of her skin.

I bring the mugs over, handing her one. “Careful, it’s hot. And there’s whiskey in it.”

She accepts it with both hands, letting the warmth seep into her fingers. “Thanks.”

“I need to clean up, too.” I gesture to the bloodstains on my arms and clothes. “Give me two minutes.”

I grab a change of clothes and head to the bathroom, leaving the door cracked so I can hear if she needs anything.

The mirror confirms what I already knew.

I’m a mess. Blood has dried on my forearms and neck, and my shirt is ruined.

I strip it off and use a washcloth to quickly scrub away the evidence, watching pink-tinged water swirl down the drain.

When I return, Briar has sipped about half her tea. Some color has returned to her face as the warmth and whiskey hit her system.

“Better?” I settle across from her.

She nods. “Better.”

We sit in silence for a while, the crackling of the fire the only sound. The silence should be awkward, but somehow it’s not. Maybe because we’ve both seen too much tonight for small talk to matter.

“You have a nice place,” she says, looking around. “It’s not what I expected.”

“What did you expect? A cardboard box under a bridge? ”

She winces. “I didn’t mean?—”

“I’m messing with you,” I say, softening my tone. “Most people are surprised. They hear ‘shipping container on the cliffs’ and picture something a lot worse.”

“I like it,” she says. “It feels... real.”

I look around, seeing my space through her eyes. The salvaged furniture. The collected bits of beach glass and driftwood arranged on shelves. The guitar in the corner I’m still teaching myself to play. The sketches tacked to the walls—my attempts at capturing the island’s coastline.

“It’s home,” I say.

She pulls her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. The shivering has subsided, but she still looks like she might shatter if touched.

“My clothes,” she says suddenly. “Where are they?”

“In the bathroom still?”

“You’re right. We need to burn them,” she says. “And I need to check my phone. And what about security cameras? Does the maze have cameras?”

“Whoa, slow down.” I hold up a hand. “One thing at a time. Your clothes—yes, we’ll burn them. The phone—it’s probably best to leave it off for now. Cameras—not in the maze itself, I’d bet, but maybe at the entrance. Damiano will know.”

She takes a deep breath, then another. “Right. Yes. Damiano will know.”

The way she says his name catches my attention. Like she’s already placing a certain level of trust in him. I’m not sure how I feel about that.

“He’ll be here soon,” I assure her, though I have no idea how long it will take him to clear the party and deal with Liam’s body. “In the meantime, try to rest. You’re safe here.”

She looks at me—really looks at me for the first time since we arrived. “Have you lived on the island your whole life?”

“Born and raised,” I say. “Eastside kid. Where the non-rich people live.”

“But you don’t live there now.”

“No. I got out. Sort of.” I take a sip of my tea. “Found this place, fixed it up. It’s far enough out that I don’t have to deal with anyone unless I want to.”

“And The Vault? You work there?”

“Head bartender.” I can’t help the hint of pride that creeps into my voice. “Started as a bouncer, worked my way up.”

She nods, processing this. “And you and Damiano...”

Here we go. “What about us?”

“You have history.”

My laugh sounds harsher than I intended. “That’s one way to put it.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” she says quickly. “It’s none of my business.”

“You’re right, it’s not.” I stand, putting some distance between us.

“But considering we’re all now bound together by a dead body, I guess some honesty is in order.

” I turn to face her. “We were together. Now we’re not.

Except sometimes we are, when we both get stupid enough to forget why we shouldn’t be. ”

“Like tonight,” she says softly.

“Like tonight,” I agree. “Look, it’s complicated. This island is small. Everyone has history with everyone else. Especially when you grow up on the wrong side of it.”

“Were you both...? I mean, did you grow up together?”

I shake my head. “Not exactly. I’m island-born. From the Eastside. Damiano’s mom was from here, but his dad was Italian. Seasonal chef for the summer people. They lived half the year here, half in Italy, until his dad left. Then it was just him and his mom in Cottage Row.”

“And you met...”

“Working. I was delivering fish to the big houses. He was gardening.” I shrug. “Started talking. Found out we both hated the same people.”

She smiles faintly. “Bonding over mutual hatred.”

“Something like that.” I don’t tell her about the other things we discovered we had in common. The darkness that recognized itself in each other. The way we both learned to survive on an island that eats its young.

A knock at the door makes us both jump. Three quick taps, then two slow ones. I recognize the pattern—Damiano’s, from years ago when we used to meet in secret.

“It’s him,” I say, moving to the door.

When I open it, Damiano stands there, looking exhausted. His clothes are dirty, with dark stains.

“It’s done,” he says simply, stepping inside.

I close the door behind him, throw the deadbolt. “Everyone gone?”

He nods. “Told them Briar wasn’t feeling well. That her condition was acting up. Most people were drunk enough not to question it.” He looks past me to where Briar sits by the fire. “You okay?”

Her nod is unconvincing.

“The body?” I ask quietly.

“Buried in the center of the maze. Under the west corner of the gazebo.” He runs a hand through his hair, which has come partly loose from its tie.

“It’s shallow for now. I had to work fast. We’ll need to go back tomorrow and do it right, dig deeper when there aren’t so many people around.

I’ll plant specific things over it, too—things that grow quickly and help with. .. decomposition.”

The matter-of-fact way he says it should be disturbing, but instead I find it reassuring. Damiano has always been thorough.

“His phone?” I ask.

“Destroyed. Buried separately.”

He nods, then moves toward Briar, crouching in front of her like I did earlier. “I brought something for you.” He withdraws a small paper package from his pocket. “Herbs. For shock and pain. It will help you sleep.”

She takes it, her fingers brushing his. “Thank you.”

Looking at them both—Damiano with his dirt-smudged clothes and Briar with her bruised neck and borrowed clothes—I’m struck by how surreal this all is. Twenty-four hours ago, we were strangers. Now we’re bound together by blood and secrets.

Damiano glances down at himself, grimacing at the dark stains on his clothes and the dirt caked under his fingernails. “I need to clean up.”

“You know where everything is,” I say, my tone neutral despite the memories my words evoke. “There should be enough hot water left for a quick rinse. I’ll grab you some clothes.”

He nods gratefully, the exhaustion evident in the slump of his shoulders. “Thanks.”

“It’s late.” I glance at the clock on the wall. Nearly 3 AM. “We all need sleep if we’re going to pull this off tomorrow.”

Damiano nods. “I should get back after I clean up. Make sure everything at the estate is secure.”

“You can stay,” I offer, surprising myself. “The couch is comfortable enough.” I nod toward Briar. “She shouldn’t be alone tonight anyway.”

“I can make my own decisions,” Briar says with strength. She sits up straighter, pulling the blanket around her shoulders like armor. “And I’d prefer you both stay. I get a say in this. ”

She flicks her gaze between us, the shock from earlier replaced by something steadier, more resolute. The fragile girl I carried through the forest is finding her backbone again, piece by piece.

“Of course.” Damiano’s words are gentler than I’ve heard in years. It’s his tone with her. Soft. Different than how he’s ever spoken to me. “Whatever you want.”

“What I want is for us to figure out what happens next,” she says. “And not to be alone with... with what I did.”

“Fair enough,” I say. “Briar, you take the bed. Damiano, you’ve got the couch.”

I glance toward my bed—a simple platform frame with a decent mattress pushed against the far wall of the container. It looks suddenly small and exposed in the open-plan space.

Damiano starts to argue, but I hold up a hand. “This isn’t a debate. I’ve slept in worse places than my own floor.” To emphasize the point, I grab the sleeping bag from the storage trunk at the foot of my bed and unroll it near the wood stove.

Briar looks like she might protest, too, but fatigue wins out. She nods weakly and moves toward the bed, sinking onto the edge of the mattress.

“There’s extra blankets in that trunk,” I tell Damiano, pointing. “Help yourself.”

He nods, his expression softening for a moment. “Thank you. ”

“Yeah, well.” I shrug, uncomfortable with the gratitude. “Just don’t hog all the blankets.”

That gets me a small smile from Briar, which feels like a victory.

I pour the rest of the hot water from the kettle into a mug and hand it to Briar.

“For the herbs,” I explain. “Something tells me you don’t swallow them dry.”

She adds the powder from Damiano’s paper package to the tea. The earthy smell fills the small space.

“Drink it all,” Damiano tells her. “It will help with the pain and help you sleep.”

She does, grimacing slightly at the taste but finishing it anyway. Within minutes, her eyelids are drooping where she sits on the edge of the bed. She’s barely conscious as she curls onto her side, pulling the comforter around her.