Page 43

Briar

The sun rises over Heathens Hollow, casting long shadows across the maze where Viktor Bastian’s body lies, arranged to look like a terrible accident.

I watch from my bedroom window as the first police cruiser pulls up the long driveway, its lights flashing but siren silent.

An officer I don’t recognize steps out, followed by two deputies.

My hands shake as I step away from the window.

The bruises on my wrists have darkened overnight, purple black against my pale skin.

My split lip throbs with each heartbeat.

In the mirror, I barely recognize myself—eyes hollow with exhaustion, hair tangled from the night’s events, dried blood still crusted at the corner of my mouth despite my attempts to wash it away.

I didn’t sleep. None of us did.

After Flint left to create his alibi at The Vault, Damiano and I cleaned up in the greenhouse.

We scrubbed Viktor’s blood from under our fingernails, stripped off our stained clothes and burned them in the old drum behind the toolshed.

Then we returned to the house separately—me through the front door, him circling around to slip in through the kitchen.

If anyone asks, we spent the night together. Just the two of us while Flint worked his shift.

I hear car doors slam outside. No Mrs. Fletcher to announce the police—she’s away in Anacortes, which makes this both easier and harder. No witnesses in the house, but also no buffer between us and the authorities.

I pull myself together and head downstairs to meet them before they can knock.

Damiano appears from the kitchen, our eyes meeting in silent communication.

His throat bears visible bruises despite the black turtleneck he’s thrown on.

We’ve prepared for this moment all night, rehearsing our story until it feels almost like truth.

I open the front door just as an officer raises his hand to knock.

“Can I help you?” I ask, feigning confusion at their presence.

The officer, older with salt-and-pepper hair and a weathered face, looks surprised to see me. “Ms. Waters? I’m Officer Miller with Heathens Hollow Police. I’m afraid there’s been an incident on your property.”

“An incident?” I step back, allowing them into the foyer. “What kind of incident? ”

“We received an anonymous call about someone in your maze last night,” he explains as the deputies hang back, eyes scanning the entrance hall. “When we investigated this morning, we found a body.”

I let my face show shock, then horror. It’s not entirely an act. Even knowing what we did, what we planned, the reality of it—a man dead, police in my home—hits me with fresh force.

“A body? Whose body?” My words shake appropriately.

“Viktor Bastian,” Miller says, watching my reaction closely. “Did you know him?”

“We’d met,” I say carefully. “At The Vault. He worked security there.”

Damiano steps forward, coming to stand beside me. “What happened to him?” He sounds calm, despite the circumstances.

Miller’s eyes flick to Damiano, noting his presence with interest. “It appears Mr. Bastian fell and hit his head on one of the stone benches in your maze. We believe he was participating in The Hunt last night and may have been intoxicated.”

“The Hunt? Here?” I wrap my arms around myself, feigning distress. “I had no idea anyone was on the property.”

One of the deputies, younger with calculating eyes, speaks up. “We found a red light bulb above your front porch, Ms. Waters. That’s the signal for The Hunt participants, isn’t it?”

Damiano’s hand finds the small of my back, steadying me. “We put that up,” he says smoothly. “For our own private Hunt. Just the three of us.”

The deputy raises an eyebrow. “Three?”

“Myself, Briar, and Flint Bishop,” Damiano explains. “He works at The Vault but joined us during a break from his shift. Went back afterward.”

The deputy’s eyes travel over my split lip, then to the bruises visible on Damiano’s neck despite his turtleneck. “Things got a bit rough, I see.”

I feel heat rise to my face, not entirely feigned. “It was consensual.”

“And you didn’t see or hear Viktor Bastian anywhere on the property?” Miller jots notes in his small book.

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “We were... focused on our own activities.”

“I see.” Miller’s tone is professional, but his expression betrays discomfort. “We’ll need formal statements from both of you. And we’ll need to speak with Mr. Bishop as well.”

“Of course,” I say. “Whatever you need.”

The deputy continues to study me, eyes narrowed. “Did you know Viktor Bastian was looking for his brother? Liam disappeared after a party here. Couple weeks back.”

My heart stutters, but my face remains composed. “I heard something about that. I didn’t know Liam well. He was just one of many guests at my birthday party.”

“Interesting coincidence.” The deputy doesn’t look convinced. “Two brothers, both last seen at your estate.”

Damiano’s hand presses more firmly against my back. “Officer, is there something you’re suggesting?”

Miller steps in before his deputy can respond. “We’re just gathering information. Would you mind if we looked around the house? Again, just routine.”

“Not at all.” I gesture toward the hall. “Feel free. I’m still a bit... shocked.”

The officers move deeper into the house, leaving Damiano and me momentarily alone in the foyer.

“You’re doing well,” he whispers, his lips barely moving. “Stay calm.”

“They suspect something,” I whisper back.

“They have suspicions, not evidence,” he reassures me. “Remember that.”

The rest of the day passes in a blur of police questions, formal statements, and barely concealed anxiety. By afternoon, the news has spread across the island—Viktor Bastian found dead in the Waters maze, apparently the victim of a drunken Hunt gone wrong.

Flint arrives as the police are preparing to leave, his timing impeccable. He plays his part perfectly—concern at discovering a death on the property, shock that it’s Viktor, careful answers about his whereabouts the night before, all backed up by witnesses at The Vault who saw him tending the bar.

“We’re done for now,” Miller tells us as his team prepares to leave. “The medical examiner’s initial findings support the accident theory. Too much alcohol, possibly combined with other substances, leading to impaired coordination. A fall, a single impact to the head.”

I exhale slowly, relief washing through me. “So that’s it?”

“For now.” He gives me a long look. “I’m sorry this happened on your property, Ms. Waters. Particularly given your health situation.”

“I’m stronger than I look,” I say.

“Clearly.” His eyes drift to Damiano, then to Flint, who’s standing by the fireplace in careful neutrality. “You three take care of each other, you hear? Island gossip is one thing, but trouble has a way of following certain... arrangements.”

When the police finally leave, the three of us remain frozen in place, listening to the crunch of tires on gravel fade into the distance. Only then do we move, collapsing together on the sofa, bodies pressed against each other in exhausted relief.

“It worked,” Flint murmurs, his hand finding mine. “For now.”

“They still suspect something,” Damiano says, rubbing his throat where Viktor’s hands nearly crushed his windpipe. “That deputy isn’t convinced.”

“But they don’t have proof,” I point out. “And they won’t find any.”

We sit in silence for a long moment, the weight of what we’ve done—what we’ve successfully covered up—settling around us like the island fog.

“What now?” Flint finally asks, looking between us.

Damiano’s hand slides to my shoulder, fingers tracing the bruises hidden beneath my shirt. “Now we decide.”

“Decide what?” I ask, though I already know.

“Whether we stay,” Flint says, his eyes serious, “or whether we run. Because maybe this is the island telling us enough is enough. It’s time to get away before the body count keeps climbing.”

The question hangs in the air between us. I look at these two men—one who’s never truly left the island, one who’s never felt he belonged anywhere. Both now tied to me through something deeper than I could have imagined when I first arrived at Heathens Hollow.

“I don’t want to leave,” I say, surprising myself with the certainty I feel. “Not when I’ve just found something worth staying for.”

Flint’s eyebrows rise slightly. “Even after all this? Three bodies, Briar. Three fucking bodies.”

“I know.” I meet his gaze steadily. “But I’ve never felt more alive than I have with you both. Even with everything that’s happened... maybe because of everything that’s happened.”

Damiano traces lazy patterns on my shoulder, his touch grounding me. “I tried leaving once,” he says quietly. “It didn’t work. ”

“You came back,” I say.

“I always knew I would.” He looks around the room, at the house that’s seen so much darkness and yet somehow still holds light. “This island... it gets in your soul.”

“So what, we’re just stuck here?” Flint asks, but there’s less edge to his question than I expected. “Haunting this place like fucking ghosts?”

“No,” I say slowly, the truth crystallizing as I speak. “Not stuck. Chosen.” I look from one to the other. “I came back to this island to die. I was so sure I was just... wasting away. And then I met you both.”

“And killed someone,” Flint adds dryly.

Despite everything, I laugh. “Yes. And killed someone. And somehow ended up covering for two more. And found... whatever this is between us.” I take a deep breath.

“Listen, Windward Estate has always been mine. My mother set up a trust when I was little—it passed to me when I turned twenty-one. It’s why I came back here instead of staying in Seattle. ”

Damiano’s hand stills on my shoulder. “You own this place? All of it?”

I nod. “Everything you see. The house, the grounds, the maze... it’s all mine.”

“Jesus,” Flint breathes. “So this whole time...”