Page 104 of Hate Wrecked

I wishI could say he was silent; that he snuck up on me with great skill. But that’s not true. The man was like a bull in a China shop in the jungle. I’m crouched down, shifting uncomfortably when he notices me. We lock eyes, and the cigarette in his mouth pisses me off.

I have grown to love this place and felt at home in spite of our desperate desire to leave.

I stand, caught, and he speaks. “Who are you?”

“This is my island,” I say. And I have no idea where those words come from, but I square my shoulders.

The man tosses his cigarette onto the ground. He doesn’t even stomp it out. My eyes follow, and he glances at the red ember, then at me. “I don’t think so. You part of the Fenwick-Lowe family? They sold this place.”

“Well, who are you?” I ask, crossing my arms. The hairs on my arms stand on end. I don’t know this man, and the company he keeps frightens me. Everything about them screams danger. I eye the tattoo on his arm—poorly done and, from what I can tell, perhaps one done in prison.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says, voice oily, gaze drifting.

“That your boat?” I ask, hitching my thumb in the direction of the vessel.

“I mean, I was on it,” he says, his mouth turning up at the corner.

“So you radioed back about the man here, right?” I ask, keeping my voice casual.

He laughs—an ugly, hollow sound. “So, you’re with him?” he says, almost amused. “Funny. He forgot to mention that.”

“What’s it matter?”

“Well,” he drawls, “we wouldn’t want a pretty little thing like you stuck out here alone. Somebody should come pick you up.” The slimy way he says it sends a spike of fear through me.

He hasn’t radioed anyone.

Did they ever plan to?

Rowan is still out there, stranded on the boat—and maybe worse.

“I know what I’m doing,” I say, voice stern. “I’ll wait here while you go make sure someone knowswe’rehere.” I nod toward the boat.

“You better come with me,” he says, beckoning me with a wave of his hand as if we’re old friends.

“I think I’m good here,” I say, arms still crossed. I’m doing everything I can to project that I don’t fear this man, though I do. Who hears the screams of those who die in remote places? The birds? They’re quiet now, sleeping, but in many ways, the jungle is alive. I can feel the humming of this place. It’s a part of me now. And I won’t let it witness my end.

The man reaches behind his back, scratching his dirty face with his other hand. When he pulls out the knife, I can feel my heart sink into my stomach.

“No. I think you should come with me.”

I don’t freeze. I don’t succumb. I don’t lie down and play good girl. I become feral, something else. I scream at the top of my lungs—not in fear, but in warning. Then I run into the jungle as fast as I can, toward the beach, toward the water. And I pray Rowan hears me.

MAN OF THE SEA

ROWAN

Riley’s screampierces the morning air as I rush out of the boat. I’m still hidden, but my loud footsteps as I run to the boat’s edge are unmistakable. I hear the commotion behind me—the voices, the shouts.

I hear it until everything falls silent, the rush of water surrounding my ears as I leap into the ocean.

I swim toward Riley’s voice. I swim and swim until I reach the shore, running along the sand, I pull out the gun. Riley is still shouting, and my name has never sounded like that—desperate, pleading, angry.

I don’t see Riley first, but I see a man in the jungle chasing her, a glint of a knife in his hands.

He doesn’t know what I have. They don’t know what I have.

And that gives me the upper hand.

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