Page 124 of Fire Island
Come on, Em.
Static mocks me with its siren squeal.
“Fire Island to watchhouse. Respond!”
The radio whines as it crackles. “Watchhouse to Fire Island. Calm your farm, McCreary.”
Errol.
For fuck’s sake.
I slide my forearm over my forehead and hang my head. Slamming a fist into the old desk, I curse him and his entire bloodline before responding, “Errol, I need Emmett. Over here. NOW.”
“Well, you don’t make the orders, command does. Unless there’s an emerg?—”
The radio squeals and goes dead.
Thirty-Three
EVIE
Isprint through the forest, brush snapping at my legs. The knife tucked into the back of my jeans moves with every stride. I pray to god I don’t lose it like I lost my belongings last time I was running hell-for-leather through these old trees. Arms out in front of me, I smack the low-hanging branches and fronds out of my way. Every minute counts.
I truly believe that.
I half expected Cal to close in, thundering through the shrubs behind me. But in true Callum McCreary style, he’s respected my wishes, letting me fight my own battles. A gift I am sure is costing him the last of his sanity as I plunder through the wilderness toward uncertainty.
Toward his only child.
His son.
I will not let Reese pay the price for my cowardice.
That is not how this story is going to end.
In the next two hours, the last six years will be done with. I will have reclaimed my life. I brought this mess with me, and I intend on cleaning it up and taking out the trash.
Permanently.
I reach the waterhole before too long. Halfway. I take a small break, walking a tight circle like my heroines do mid-battle. Turning up breathless and exhausted is how you get dead. So a minute of rest is essential.
The burn in my lungs fades, and I take off again for the fishing hut. The closer I get, the more I scan my surroundings. I’m not naive enough to think they won’t have prepared for my arrival. I slow my pace when I feel I’m getting close. Picking my way through the undergrowth, I stay as quiet as I can. I pull my shirt out at the back and cover the knife.
I need the element of surprise.
I need stealth.
I nee?—
A twig cracks underfoot.
I still.
I crouch and close my eyes, listening.
I’m about to push to my feet after hearing nothing when a chuckle echoes through the trees.
Glancing around, I walk, hunched over, trying to creep closer to the hut. Deciding to come around on them from the back to assess the situation, I take each step one at a time, making sure to stay as quiet as I can in the littered undergrowth.
