Page 22

I was on my way back to the bungalow when I heard something. A twig snapped. My head whipped around, eyes narrowing as I scanned the bushes bordering the path, then followed the rustling of leaves under stealthy movement. I held my breath.

"Hello?"

There was no answer but the hush of foliage parting in reticence. A shadow shifted—the briefest flicker of a presence—and then stillness returned, oppressive and mocking. My heart thudded a warning, adrenaline flooding my system.

Another rustle. I halted and put a finger to my lips out of habit. My eyes darted across the underbrush, every training protocol etched into my muscles, tensing for action. There was no breeze to excuse the movement, no benign wildlife to be seen scampering. This was deliberate and calculated.

Was someone following me?

"Show yourself," I demanded, voice steady despite the drumbeat of my heart against my ribs. Silence answered, defiant and stretched thin like a wire about to snap.

I crept forward, one cautious step after another, the crunch of my flip-flops on the ground seeming deafening in the hush.

Another rustle—closer this time, a whisper of sound in the stifling quiet. The foliage parted slightly, just enough for me to catch a glimpse of something… someone.

"Marcus Cole." The name escaped my lips before I could reel it back in. I recognized him from the papers from ten years ago. There he was. Standing in the bushes, hiding behind them, looking like a portrait of ruin, his clothes hanging off him in tatters, face gaunt with dark circles underlining his watchful eyes.

"Who are you? I saw you in my bungalow, touching my things."

He breathed out, the words tangled in a mess of disbelief and fear. His emergence from the shadows was like a ghost stepping forth from its haunting, the past bleeding into the present.

“I’m FBI Agent Thomas,” I said. "Marcus, why are you here?" I kept my voice level, but inside, my pulse throbbed.

“Why are you asking?”

“Because you being here makes it look like you are here for revenge. Maybe you already had it? Did you kill Mark?”

He shook his head with a snort. “You gotta be kidding me.”

“Then help me, Marcus. Tell me why you’re here. Why are you hiding in a seemingly empty bungalow?”

"Isn't it obvious?" His laugh was a sharp burst, bitter as the salt tang in the air. "I'm searching for something."

"Searching? Or hiding?" The accusation hung heavy between us like the oppressive humidity of the island.

"Hiding? From what, Agent Thomas?" His gaze darted left, then right, like a caged animal seeking an escape. "The ghosts of my past?"

"Mark's dead, Marcus. You're linked to him, to Isla. Can't ignore that."

"Linked by lies!" His fist clenched and unclenched, a rhythm of frustration. "You think this is easy? Being back here?"

"Easy? No. But necessary? Maybe." I stepped closer, watching the muscles in his jaw twitch. "Tell me your side of the story."

"Side…," he scoffed, his voice cracking. "Sides imply fairness. There was nothing fair when they locked me up at seventeen!"

"Then help me understand," I urged, trying to pierce his armored exterior.

"Understand?" His eyes blazed, and his hands shook with barely restrained fury. "You can't. Not unless you've been in that hellhole."

"Try me."

"Ten years," he spat out. "Ten years in a cell, while the real killer walked free."

"Who, Marcus? Who's the real killer?"

"Wouldn't you love to know?" His smirk was quick and vanished fast, leaving behind a shadow of pain. "Like anyone would believe me now."

"Try me," I repeated, softer this time.

"Believe a convict?" He shook his head, a lock of hair falling into his eyes. "No one listens to a ghost."

"Marcus, ghosts don't leave footprints. You're alive. Talk."

"Alive?" Bitter laughter again. "You call this living?"

"Better than giving up."

"Who says I've given up?" His stance shifted, a glimmer of his old defiance sparking within him.

"Prove it. Help me solve Mark's murder."

"Help? At what cost, Agent Thomas?" His words were shards of glass, sharp and scattered.

"Justice has no price tag."

"Justice," he mused, the word foreign on his lips. "Is that what we're calling it these days?"

"Call it what you want," I said, holding his gaze. "But if you know something?—"

"Knowing isn't enough." His shoulders slumped just for a moment, revealing the burden he carried. "It never was."

"Doesn't mean you shouldn't speak out."

"Speak out?" He snorted. "To who? The same people who didn't listen before?"

"Things have changed, Marcus. I'm listening."

"Are you?" Suspicion laced his question. "Or are you just waiting to slap cuffs on me again?"

"Only if you're guilty."

"Guilty…." He trailed off, lost in memories only he could see. "Was guilty before I even spoke a word. Remember?"

"The past doesn't have to be prologue, Marcus. We can write a new chapter here."

"New chapter, huh?" He looked at me then, really looked, and I saw a flicker of hope in the ruin. "Maybe…."

"Start talking."

"Talking leads to trouble."

"Silence breeds it."

He weighed my words, the internal battle playing across his face. Finally, with a deep breath that seemed to dredge up the very depths of his soul, he took a step forward.

"Fine. But if I talk, you've got to promise?—"

"Anything."

"Promise me you'll keep an open mind."

"Always do."

"Alright," he said, nodding slowly, a decision made.

"Let's start from the beginning," I said.

"The night Isla was—This guy who is here at the resort now, I’ve seen him around, was…."

A crackle of leaves underfoot cut through the humid air, slicing our exchange in two. We both froze, instincts flaring like a match struck in darkness. I scanned the thick foliage, my trained eyes searching for the source of the intrusion.

"Did you hear that?" I whispered.

"Footsteps," he breathed out, already edging away.

"Wait, Marcus?—"

"I can't." His gaze darted around the clearing, wild and desperate. "Not again."

"Marcus, don't run. I need to know what you mean. What about that guy? Who is he?"

"I need to go.”

“No, Marcus. You don’t have to be afraid.”

“Easy for you to say," he spat back, "with your badge and your backup."

"Backup is miles away. It's just us here. Cut off from the world."

"Exactly," he said, as the footsteps grew louder and closer. “I need to make sure no one knows I’m here.”

"Whatever happens, I can protect you," I urged, but the panic had taken hold, churning through him like a current.

"Sorry, no can do." He backed into the shadows, a ghost of a man wronged by life one too many times.

"Marcus, damn it!" My frustration boiled over as he vanished into the greenery, each rustling leaf marking his retreat.

I paced the clearing, my thoughts a whirlwind. Marcus's taut face, his insistent claims—they clung to me like burrs. Could the truth be so twisted? Ten years had passed since Isla's case closed; ten years of rotting lies? What did he mean to say about this guy? Who was he?

I looked around but found no one, then I hurried back to my bungalow. There on the wooden porch, I saw something.

My heart hitched.

I crouched, hands parting leaves with surgical precision. There, nestled as if by an afterthought, lay an unmarked envelope—ivory against the green tapestry.

Fingers trembling, I broke the seal. The note inside unfolded with a soft crease, the letters stark against the white paper:

"Stop looking, or you'll be next."

No signature, no flourish, just those words like ice water down my spine.

"Great," I murmured, scanning the untamed brush around me as if the trees held prying eyes. My pulse hammered, each beat echoing the threat scrawled in block letters.

"Threats now? Really?" I scoffed into the void, but the bravado couldn't mask the dread seeping into my bones.

"Whoever you are, better watch your back," I whispered, a silent promise to the wind. My jaw set, my gaze hardened. I had to shield Olivia, even if it meant walking through fire.

"Game on," I breathed, stepping forward with newfound determination. The stakes were clear, and I was all in.