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Briar

“I had a party. It got bigger than I expected. I went to bed early. I don’t know everyone who was there.”

I repeat the lines in my head for the twentieth time, trying not to sound too rehearsed while Viktor Bastian stares me down from across the kitchen table. His eyes haven’t left my face since he sat down ten minutes ago.

“And what time would that have been, Ms. Waters? When you went to bed?”

“Around midnight, I think.” I fidget with my teacup. “I was tired. My condition?—”

“Yes, your condition.” He glances at the medication bottles lined up on the counter. “Must be difficult.”

Something about the way he says it makes my skin crawl. Like he doesn’t quite believe me.

Two other men stand near the back door—ex-military types with hard eyes and crew cuts. One of them keeps checking his watch. They brought dogs, currently sniffing around the perimeter of the house with handlers. I’m trying not to think about what would happen if they decided to explore the maze.

“Liam was here, at your party.” Viktor leans forward slightly.

“I invited a lot of people. I honestly don’t remember everyone who came.” I take a sip of tea to hide my face. “The party got bigger than expected. Word spread.”

“As you keep saying. That happens with parties.” His statement is too calm. “People you don’t know showing up. Causing trouble sometimes.”

I’m saved from answering by the sound of the front door opening and bags dropping in the hall.

“Miss Briar? I’m back early. The ferry schedule was—” Mrs. Fletcher stops in the kitchen doorway, narrowing her eyes at the sight of Viktor. “What’s going on here?”

“Mrs. Fletcher.” I try to mask my relief. “This is Viktor Bastian. He’s looking for his brother, who unfortunately turned up missing the other night.”

Mrs. Fletcher takes in the scene—three strangers in her kitchen, me looking uncomfortable, the men by the door. Her expression hardens.

“In Miss Waters’s kitchen? Without calling ahead?” She moves into the room like she owns it, which in many ways, she does. “I wasn’t aware we were entertaining visitors today.”

“We’re not staying long.” Viktor’s tone remains pleasant but his eyes are cold. “Just asking a few questions about Ms. Waters’s party.”

“And that requires three men?” Mrs. Fletcher sniffs. She turns to me. “Have you offered these gentlemen tea, Miss Briar? Or were they just leaving?”

Her meaning is clear. I hide a smile behind my cup.

“Actually, Mrs. Fletcher, they were wondering if they could search the grounds.”

“Search for what?” She raises an eyebrow. “You think he’s here?”

“Last seen at Ms. Waters’s party,” Viktor says. “We’re checking everywhere he might have been.”

Mrs. Fletcher sighs like this is all a terrible inconvenience. “Well, you can look around outside, I suppose, but I’ll need to accompany anyone entering the house proper. The Waters family values their privacy, as I’m sure you understand.”

Viktor stands, nodding slightly. “We’ll continue our search of the grounds, then. With your permission, Ms. Waters?”

Like he’s giving me a choice.

“That’s fine,” I say.

After they leave, Mrs. Fletcher immediately starts making a fresh pot of tea, the clink of china more aggressive than necessary.

“The nerve of those men,” she mutters. “Your father would have a fit if he knew.”

“Thank you for stepping in.” I wrap my sweater tighter around me, suddenly cold despite the kitchen’s warmth. “I wasn’t sure how much longer I could answer questions.”

“Vultures, the lot of them.” She sets a steaming cup in front of me. “Now, tell me about this party. I leave for one weekend and come back to search parties and interrogations.”

I recite the story again, this version slightly more candid since she wasn’t here. The party, the crowd getting out of hand, me going to bed early—all technically true, just minus the part about killing someone.

Through the kitchen window, I can see men with dogs moving methodically across the lawn toward the garden. Toward the maze. My heart rate picks up.

“Don’t worry about them trampling the flowers,” Mrs. Fletcher says, mistaking my concern. “That Ricci boy will fix whatever they destroy. Though heaven knows that maze is more trouble than it’s worth.”

I turn to her, grateful for the distraction. “What do you mean?”

“That maze has been nothing but a headache for years. Your grandmother’s pride and joy, but the upkeep is ridiculous.” She starts unpacking groceries with sharp movements. “And during certain... events, it becomes a nuisance.”

“Events?”

“The Hunt.” She practically spits the word. “Every year, all those strangers and heathens running through the property like animals. No respect for privacy or decent behavior.”

I sit up straighter.

“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 good for 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’s questioning 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 to talk 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…