Page 21 of Fire Island
The Coast Guard boat?
Em . . .
“Emmett!”
The second the first syllable passes my lips, Timothy swings around. The back of his hand slams into my cheek.
Ringing starts in my ears. My head spins as I sway on my feet. Copper blooms in my mouth, and I swallow metallic liquid down.
“Shut the hell up,” he hisses, slipping a hand into the side of the backpack, producing a handgun.
I gasp, cowering as he wields it in my face.
“You don’t make a sound.” His face is feral, livid mania sinking his wide eyes into their sockets.
I nod, biting down hard on my bottom lip. I barely register the burn as more copper laces through my mouth. Checking outside is still clear through the cracked-open front door, he pushes through, the tip of his gun now stabbing into my ribs.
I try and fail to hold in a whimper when I see the Coast Guard boat closing in on the jetty.
From here, I can see someone aboard, but their back is turned. Timothy pulls me toward the forest tree line. No...
“Emmett,” I gasp. The name barely passes my lips before fading out.
Desperation claws at my insides. Rendering me almost mute.
Timothy glances at the jetty before his glare lands on me. “Keep your mouth shut, you stupid fucking slut.” Then, as if talking to himself, he mutters, “Another one to take down. How many will she have before she has me... God, he said she was ours.”
I stare at the side of his face, horror lancing through me, impaling my senses.
He’s not just a stalker, he’s lost it.
Who ishe?
Caught up in some fantasy where he’s the chosen one, and I’m the prize. Everyone else is simply another obstacle for him to eliminate.
I feign a limp, trying to slow us down. To give Emmett time to see me. To see us.
To realize I’m here, and I never left. That I need his help.
The gun reaffirms its position at my ribs, and I close my gaping mouth.
Emmett . . . he’s so close.
Em finally disembarks, carrying a load in his arms, as Timothy pulls me into the forest past the tree line. Sobs tumble from me in bouts of despair.
I want to scream for Em. I want to turn on this weedy, sick little man and tear him to pieces. But amidst my panic, I simply hover, frozen.
Unable to do either.
Six
CALLUM
Errol stares at me like the enemy I am fromhis tableat the café. I return the glare tenfold but lose it as his granddaughter delivers my breakfast.
She beams at me. With pretty brown eyes, a splatter of freckles over her cheeks, and wavy brown hair, she’s the much prettier spitting image of her grandfather. Or at least, the version of him thirty years ago.
“Thanks,” I grunt before shoveling a hearty helping of scrambled eggs into my mouth. Better the eggs stuff my mouth full before something I’ll regret slips out.
