Page 3 of Hunting Harbor

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The way she moves is like music. I know her rhythm by heart. I wait outside the coffee shop, having a smoke, a flat cap pulled over my eyes. I’m not quite ready for her to know who I am, but the need to be close to her burns through me. The new notepad I bought feels right at home in my hand, and I record her arrival time.A few minutes late. And she looks tired today.

Her schedule is easy to predict but still thrilling to watch. I document each move, each precious minute she allows me to own. She doesn’t stay at the cafe today, instead she orders her usual and heads across the street. I follow behind her, slowly.

The door to the little bookstore jingles as she steps inside. She loves that place, always sitting at the same table by the back corner, surrounded by writing journals she fills with her words. She pretends to be caught up in her work, but she glances around, nervous and excited by the presence of strangers. I know the dirty thoughts that fill her mind, and can tell by the way she’s clenching her thighs she’s thinking of them now.

Of me.

She sighs and shuts her notebook. Frustration coloring her face as she silently screams. Her muse has left her, and she doesn’t know why.

I do.

Her fantasies are just that… fantasy. But I’m going to make them a reality for her, and she will never have writer’s block again.

With a grunt, she gets up and waves goodbye to the shop owner just as her phone rings. Looking down at her watch, panic fills her eyes. She’s expecting this call, but she doesn’t want to answer.

Interesting.

She sits on the bench next to where I’m standing, pretending to scroll my phone. It sounds like some kind of therapist as she answers in clipped tones.

Something about her father and her brother… hurting her. Taking advantage of her. Forcing themselves on her. She asks how she can work through this, how she can get past the blocks that haunt her. I can’t make out what the therapist says but she sighs. She doesn’t want to meet this person at their office, claiming she’s not ready for that step yet.

Anger courses through me and an idea form. The ultimate gift. Freedom from the burdens that are holding her back. The pain that still lingers in her mind.

I glance at her again, seeing the tears well in her eyes and something inside me snaps. No one hurts my girl.

A burning rage builds, and I need to leave before I do something stupid. Before I expose myself to her and ruin everything. Walking quickly back to my truck, I sit for a moment, scribbling notes in my notepad, the writing barely legible as I press too hard, ink staining the pages.

Breathing deeply, I force myself to calm. No point in driving home and crashing. Sheneedsme. She needs me to protect her from them. Now my plan is two-fold. Save her and keep her. The drive back to my house is quick because I make it that way.

Heading into my office, I plop down on my seat and take a breather as I ruminate on the men who hurt her. Who touched her.

They won’t know what hit them.

The photos fill my walls, arranged like a scrapbook of the obsession I call love. Harbor at nineteen, discovering herself and the woods where she grew up. Harbor at twenty, letting the world know her name. Harbor at twenty-nine, wanting inspiration, her pen writing on her cheek as she holds it the wrong way. The camera shots from outside her apartment are beautiful, my little writer moving between stages of knowing herself.

I map the timeline of her life, but her past had eluded me. Until now. Paternal abuse, a brother’s molestation. It’s not her fault. It’s theirs. They touched what’s mine.

Everyone these days has social media. Everyone posts everything, all the time. It creates a very easy to follow timeline of life events. Except hers. Hers had ‘Throwback Thursdays” but all oddly devoid of anything meaningful linking to her past. Just photos of her when she was younger, important pieces of the puzzle, to be sure, but nothing substantial.

Hers reads like a novel with missing pages. Public posts, private pain. I sort through the clutter of her life, knowing she didn’t put it there. Her patterns, her relationships, all recorded by someone who thought they knew her. They didn’t. Not the way I do. I print every image, each one more telling than the last, pinning them to my wall until I can see how the story ends. It ends with us. Harbor and Kairo, the way it’s supposed to be.

After that phone call, now I know where to dig. What to find. The timeline of when she stopped posting her life so creatively, started the dayhiscomments began.

Ian. He comments on everything she posts, all the way back to when she was a teenager. Her brother. Then her father’s name. John. Tagged in old family photos she hasn’t deleted, in memories she can’t escape. My hand tightens around the mouse as I discover them. She never had a chance with those fuckers in her life.

I slam my fist into the wall. My vision goes white for a second, but I welcome the pain, let it fuel my next moves. Harbor won’t have to remember what they did to her. She’ll remember what I’m going to do for her instead. They think they’re safe, think they can ruin her while I sit back and watch. Not this time. Not ever.

I’m clinical as I plan, checking current addresses and printing satellite images of their homes. One’s rural, the other in a crowded city. The wolf and the fox. I’ll have to be smart, move fast and precise, leave nothing behind except the memory of their blood.

The map unfolds before me, entry points marked with a careful hand. I pack a duffel with tools, each one selected for a different task. Ropes and plastic sheeting. Gloves to cover my tracks. They won’t know what hit them. They won’t even have time to beg.

I catch sight of Harbor’s face in one of the photos, her green eyes questioning, unsure. I trace her outline, whisper that it will be okay. I’m making the world safe for her, killing the ones who need killing. If I let her go, she’ll break. If I let them live, she’ll be ruined. I’m the only one who can protect her from the past she couldn’t escape. The past I will destroy.

My movements are sharp, precise, anger channeled into purpose. I pack the bag and close it with a snap. One last glance at my walls, and I see only Harbor, her pictures leading up to the present, to our future, to what she will become with me. She’ll thank me for this. It’s what she’s always wanted, what she’s never had. Someone who knows her. Someone who will make it right.

A normal one… one with a conscious, would console her, comfort her. But I am no ordinary man. I’m going to do this and I’m going right now.

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