Page 269 of Let Me In

Dark road. No traffic. City lights rising slowly over the horizon, scattered and muted by distance.

I keep the windows up. Not for warmth. Just to keep the silence close.

The duffel sits on the passenger seat.

Zipped. Weighted.

Everything I need is in it.

And still—I keep glancing at the glove box.

Where the compass rests.

I don’t touch it.

Not yet.

Not because I’m afraid.

But because she touched it last. Her fingerprint’s probably still on the rim—maybe a faint smudge, or the trace of her lavender hand cream. It’s enough to steady me.

And that’s enough to carry me a little longer.

St. John’s rises ahead, half-asleep.

Empty streets and dim shopfronts. The harbor lights blinking in quiet intervals like a pulse I know too well.

The yacht is out past the narrows. Not visible from land. Anchored in waters so cold they swallow sound. No transponder. No flag.

No witnesses.

He thinks he’s a ghost king. Thinks distance and darkness make him untouchable. But I’ve tracked every supply drop, mapped every tide shift, timed the gaps in his silence. He doesn’t know how close I already am.

He doesn’t know I’ve already buried the man I used to be. Doesn’t know I’ve already chosen my grave—and it isn’t out there. It’s here. Inside this body that still holds her warmth. This silence that still holds her voice.

I love you. I’ll be back.

The road winds lower. The docks draw near. I park in the shadow, kill the engine, and leave the keys in my pocket. I don’t look back. I never do. But I see her anyway—curled on the couch in my flannel, porch light glowing behind her. A promise waiting to be kept.

The harbor lies still. No motion. Just the slow shift of tide against hulls, the faint groan of wood and line.

The yacht is there. Far enough out to be unseen from the docks. Close enough for a small craft to reach. But there’s no launch. No noise. No guards on shore. Just the dark shape on the water, lit faintly by underdeck glow. Rich. Sleek. Too quiet.

He’s out there. Watching. Just like I am.

I slide from the truck.

No wetsuit yet. Not tonight.

Tonight is for surveillance.

I move along the edge of the docks, slow and soundless. Avoid the gravel. Stick to pavement. My boots don’t echo—they never have. My shadow stretches long in the moonlight,flickering as I pass beneath the gaps in the dock lights. Each breath fogs faintly in the air before vanishing.

The wind off the water cuts through my jacket. I don’t flinch.

I make it to the edge of the marina where the streetlights thin and the fence line breaks into wild brush. Slip through. Down to the shore.

There’s a spot I know—out past the outer jetty, where the view opens just enough to see the harbor mouth.

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