Page 4

Briar

Morning hits me like a truck, yanking me out of the deepest sleep I’ve had since forever.

Sunlight streams through the lace curtains—not the blackout ones I need in Seattle.

The herbal stuff from Damiano sits half-empty on my nightstand.

Whatever was in that cup knocked me out better than anything my doctors have prescribed in years.

Call me immediately. Need update on your condition.

Once again, not How did you sleep? or How are you feeling today? Just demanding his status report like I’m one of his business deals. I toss aside the phone without responding. Let him wait.

Downstairs, Mrs. Fletcher bustles around the kitchen, already preparing lunch. The aroma of fresh bread fills the air, comforting in its normality.

“Good morning.” She eyes me with approval. “You have color in your cheeks today. Did you sleep well?”

“Better than I have in months,” I admit, pouring myself coffee from the carafe. “Something about island air, I guess.”

She nods, but her gaze flicks toward the small brown paper package I’ve brought down with me.

Damiano’s herbs. I’ve wrapped the remainder carefully, intending to ask him what exactly was in that mixture.

Not that I don’t trust him—which is weird, considering I just met the guy—but my scientist brain wants details.

“I should have mentioned this yesterday, but I leave tomorrow for the weekend,” Mrs. Fletcher says, wiping her hands on her apron. “My sister in Anacortes is having her fiftieth wedding anniversary. I already told your father I’d be away for it.”

“That’s fine,” I say, sipping my coffee. It’s strong and perfect.

“I’ve left some meals for you in the fridge, all labeled with heating instructions.” She pauses, looking worried. “If you don’t want to be alone, I could ask Marjorie from town to stop by?—”

“I’ll be fine,” I cut in, maybe too quickly. “Seriously. I’m not dying.” I take another sip of my coffee. “I know my father may have painted a different picture, but I really can take care of myself. ”

Her face says she’s not buying it, but she nods anyway. “Well, I’ve put emergency numbers on the fridge, including the island clinic.”

“Thank you.” I drum my fingers against the ceramic mug, suddenly realizing something. “Wait... tomorrow’s the seventeenth?”

“Yes, it is.”

My birthday.

Twenty-eight years of existence, and not a single soul on this island cares or knows. Not even my father remembered in his morning text. Pretty on-brand, honestly.

And pretty fucking sad.

“Everything all right, Miss Briar?”

I force a smile. “Perfect. I just realized I need to... make some plans.”

Plans. Weird how foreign that word feels after years of having doctors and my dad run my entire life. When was the last time I decided to do something fun? I can’t even remember the last time I celebrated anything.

A dangerous idea starts forming—ridiculous, impulsive, exactly what Maxwell Waters would disapprove of. Which makes it instantly appealing.

“Mrs. Fletcher, are those party boxes still in the basement? The stuff Mom used for her summer parties?”

She looks confused by my random question. “I think so. In the storage behind the wine cellar. Your father hasn’t touched them since?— ”

“Since Mom died. Yeah, I know.” I stand up, suddenly pumped with energy. “I think I’ll have some people over tomorrow night. Nothing crazy.”

The lie comes out super easily. I don’t have a single friend on this island. I barely have friends anywhere, unless you count my physical therapist who sends me cat memes after sessions.

Her forehead creases with worry. “Miss Briar, are you sure that’s a good idea? With your health?—”

“My health is exactly why I need this.” I sound snippy, so I soften my tone. “I’ll keep it small. Just a few people.”

She doesn’t look convinced but nods reluctantly. “I’ll make sure the main rooms are prepared before I leave this evening, then.”

After breakfast, I grab my camera and head out, pretending I want to take photos of the grounds when I’m actually looking for Damiano. Disappointingly, the greenhouse is empty. No sign of the mysterious groundskeeper among his collection of plants.

I check the maze next, but there’s no sign of him there either. The guy clearly doesn’t stick to any kind of schedule. Figures, for someone who seems to appear out of thin air.

After an hour of wandering the grounds with nothing to show for it except a few decent photos of fog-covered trees, I head back to the house. Maybe I’ll have better luck finding him later. Right now, I’ ve got a party to plan, and that means venturing into town to spread the word.

I shower and change into actual clothes instead of my usual loungewear—black jeans, a soft gray sweater, and boots. I even put on makeup—enough to not look like death warmed over. Looking in the mirror, I almost recognize the girl from before I got sick.

“Mrs. Fletcher,” I call, finding her dusting in the library. “I’m heading into town for a bit.”

Her eyebrows shoot up like I’ve announced I’m joining the circus. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? The walk is?—”

“I found the keys to the old Jeep in Dad’s desk. It still works, right?”

She nods reluctantly. “Mr. Waters has it serviced regularly, though it’s rarely used. The tank should be full.”

“Perfect.” I’m already heading toward the door, a strange excitement bubbling in my chest. Freedom. Even temporary, it tastes sweet.

The Jeep starts on the first try, the engine rumbling to life like an awakening beast. I haven’t driven in months. It’s another thing my father deemed “too taxing” for someone in my condition. The giddy thrill of rebellion propels me down the winding road toward town.

Heathens Hollow’s main street looks exactly like I remember—that practical strip of weathered buildings housing the grocery, pharmacy, hardware store, and a few bars.

The fishing boats must be out for the day because the docks I pass are mostly empty, though people are unloading crates from the few vessels that remain.

The air smells like salt and fish, so different from the antiseptic bubble I’ve been living in.

I park near what’s always been the center of activity and start walking, my camera around my neck. The locals—men in work clothes with weathered faces, women carrying supplies or hurrying between errands—give me curious glances. The Waters daughter, out among the commoners. What a spectacle.

As I pass Mooncrow Artifacts, the display of The Hunt masks in the window catches my eye. Bone-white stag skulls, modified with extra antler points and adorned with black feathers. They’ve put out the full display, which means the season must be approaching.

I’ve always been fascinated by The Hunt—the red lights appearing on porches across the island, the whistles in the night, the masked men slipping through the trees pursuing women in white.

As kids, we’d dare each other to stay up and watch from our windows.

We knew the basics: women put out red lights if they wanted to participate, men wore stag masks and hunted them down.

The grown-ups never explained the rest, but we figured it out eventually.

The chase, the capture, what happened after.

It was like this secret island language everyone pretended we didn’t understand.

I keep walking until I reach The Vault. The old bank building with its blackened windows has been the island’s not-so-secret hotspot since it opened years ago.

Dad freaked when he heard some “sex dungeon” had opened on “his” island.

I remember thinking it sounded way more interesting than another summer of yacht parties with his boring business associates.

I try the door on a whim. Locked, obviously. It’s not even noon yet.

“We don’t open until nine,” says someone behind me.

I turn to find this guy who looks like he walked straight out of some underground rock show—tall, with angular features, jet-black hair boasting a white streak at his temple.

Multiple piercings, a silver lip ring, and these gray eyes that are almost silver.

He’s sizing me up like he’s trying to decide if I’m worth the trouble.

“Yeah, figured that,” I say, not backing down from his stare. “Just scoping the place out.”

“The Vault isn’t big on walk-ins.” He crosses his arms. “Members only. Though exceptions get made.”

“Let me guess… if you’re rich enough or hot enough?” I raise an eyebrow.

One corner of his mouth twitches. “Pretty much. Helps if you’re both. ”

“Good to know some things never change on this island.”

“You’ve been here before, then?” He’s studying me more carefully now.

“I am Briar Waters.” I don’t offer my hand. “The big house on the north shore.”

“Ah, Waters.” Recognition flashes in his eyes, but he doesn’t look impressed. “Thought you guys only haunted the island in July and August but years ago.”

“Usually. I’m on extended sick leave this year.”

“Lucky us,” he says dryly. “Flint Bishop. I run the bar here.”

“So you’re the person to know if I want to have some fun around here?”

“Depends on your definition of fun.” He studies my face. “What’s the Waters definition these days?”

I make a split-second decision. “I’m throwing a party tomorrow night. At Windward Estate.”

That gets his attention. His eyebrow shoots up, the piercing above it catching the light. “A party? At the Waters fortress? That’s different.”

“It’s my birthday.” I shrug, trying to come across casual. “Though nobody knows that. Or cares.”

“Including your father?”

“Especially my father.”

He gives me a look that suggests I’ve just become slightly more interesting to him. “Bold move, but why tell me? We just met, and I’m hardly on the Waters guest list.”

Something clicks in my brain as I glance back at Mooncrow’s window display. “I want to throw a Hunt-themed party.”

His posture shifts slightly—more alert, more wary. “Hunt-themed? What do you mean?”