Page 19 of Moonlit Hideaway
Dressing quickly, she counted the cash in her purse. Two hundred and change. She’d left the bulk of her ten grand in the ammo box underneath the shotgun shells after she left West Virginia. She’d made a mistake coming to a small town where she stuck out like a sore thumb.
She should have bought herself a new identity. Her dad had contacts. She should have planned this better, maybe gotten herself a bodyguard and contacted an attorney. Yet, any of those people could betray her, and then she’d be no better than where she was now.
Marooned on an island where her nightmares could close in on her.
Gentle October sunlight leaked around the edges of the blackout curtain. Sierra strapped on her backpack and put on a trucker’s baseball cap. She checked her reflection in the mirror. Tired lines around her eyes. Check. Hair dull and unremarkable. Check. Lips cracked and in need of Chapstick. Check.
It was time to go.
Peeking out into the hallway, she paused. Hank’s room was silent, and Emma’s shower was going. She was glad she’d had Hank help her haul her guitar and three large suitcases down the stairs the night before. All she needed to do was leave the key on the bureau and slip down the back stairs.
She quickly crossed the hallway and headed for the alternate staircase. The treads were steep and creaked as she made herway down, but so far, the coast was clear. The TV blared in the lounge, and she went to the sideyard without meeting anyone.
The air held the crisp tang of the ocean mixed with a fresh, earthy scent. Leaves, touched with gold and crimson, fluttered in the light breeze, and the sea beyond the dunes sparkled in its tranquil Outer Banks beauty.
A lump rose in her throat as she looked up at the balcony where she’d last seen Hank. She could still see that rugged profile—so much like the statue of the rescuer—peering out to sea in search of shipwrecks and survivors.
As she came around the corner toward the parking area, a loud squeal startled her. Emma’s pet pig, Oliver, scampered up to her, wiggling his tail. His muddy nose smeared across her jeans, and he grunted like he was looking for buried treasure.
“Oh, Jane, didn’t know you were up.” Hank came toward her with his hands in his pockets. He was wearing a plaid work shirt and had his jeans rolled up over his muddy work boots. “You still have time to catch the ferry. Why don’t you come in for breakfast?”
His demeanor was as usual, as if last night’s hushed encounter on the balcony hadn’t happened.
“I left the keys on the bureau. I didn’t damage anything, so I think I’m squared away.”
“Not quite,” he said, coming closer while Oliver sniffed around her feet. “You only stayed two nights and paid for an entire week. I believe we owe you a refund.”
“Thanks, but… I should get going. I don’t want to miss the ferry.”
“It gets crowded coming the other direction, but hardly anyone leaves Hattokwa in the morning. The evening is a different story. People can’t wait to leave.” He made a gesture with his head toward the house. “Besides, you might want toclaim that diamond heart bracelet. I’m pretty sure I saw you post it on Instagram.”
“You looked me up?”
He shrugged. “I couldn’t sleep, so yes, once I figured it out. I’m not sure if Emma knows yet. All she saw was your public image, and you’re quite a master at disguise.”
“Apparently, not good enough to get past you.” She rolled her tongue in her cheek. “Hank, you’re a good man, and I trust you’ll tamp down the rumors. I have a personal reason for canceling my tour, and I’d rather not discuss it. I need time to myself.”
He held up his hand. “Scout’s honor. You’ll tell me when you’re ready.”
Why would he believe she’d even have a chance to tell him? He was putting her at ease, of course.
“It might be better for you to keep the bracelet for now,” she said to his raised eyebrows. “Instead of going to a small town, I’m going to be homeless in a big city for a month or two. Lay low.”
“That’s not a good idea.” His face darkened. “You have no idea what it’s like on the streets.”
“And you do?”
A grim expression darkened his face, and he swallowed. “I was a runaway.”
“And your mom?” She didn’t quite believe him. He seemed so wholesome. “She’s like the happy homemaker.”
“We all have our pasts. Anyway, let me get you your change, and I’ll meet you in the lot.” His voice was brisk and impersonal, as if she’d overstepped a line. “Sorry about Oliver dirtying your jeans.”
“Eh, consider it camouflage.” She gave him a reconciliatory wink, realizing that this farewell was as awkward for him as it was for her.
She walked around the woodpile and skidded to a halt. A scream rose from her throat, and she dropped her backpack—running the rest of the way to her truck.
The windows were broken, and her heart sank as she reached for the door. It was ajar, and everything was gone. Her guitar, her luggage, the two rifles on the rack, and…
