Beach Thriller(90)

The structure is tall and bulky, curved like the room. I tried to push it to get it closer to the window, but it’s secured to the wall. I’m breathless from trying, but I’m not about to give up.

I slip my foot into the bottom opening of the rack, hoisting myself off the ground. I pull back to test if the wine rack will hold my weight without tipping over. It does, so I start climbing higher—left foot, right foot, one hand, then the other—until my shoulders are level with the grate.

I let go with one hand, leaning out as far as I can. My arms and legs are tired and shaky. But no matter how far I reach, my fingertips don’t even touch the metal.

There’s only one option remaining. Summoning all my courage, I push myself off the rack and leap into the air. In flight, I manage to grab two looping sections of the scroll-like design a millisecond before I would have fallen to the floor. My fingers latch onto the metal loops, and I hold on, but that’s all I can do. With my feet suspended off the ground and my arms fully extended, I hang there like a piece of wall art. Rust causes brittle flakes of metal to break off under my grip and jab into my skin like painful cactus needles.

From up here, I can see outside. I’m looking out at a stretch of lawn that fades into a dense patch of trees and shrubs. The window is on the side of the house, not the front, so there’s less chance of someone walking past it.

I pull on the barricade, hoping to free it from the wall, but I have no leverage. Even if I did, I realize it’s securely attached to the stone with rusted bolts and brackets.

My muscles burn from hanging on so long. I have to let go. When I drop, my knees hit the floor—hard. I scramble back to my feet. Everything aches, blood pooling on my palms where the rust broke the skin. If I weren’t close to death, I’d worry about tetanus. I pace the room, picking rust flakes out of my bleeding hands, feeling helpless like a caged tiger, and just as angry.

Out of pure spite, I reach down and grab the nearest wine bottle. I don’t care about the vintage or the year. Mostly, I’m thinking about my aim. I cock my arm back, then whip it forward with velocity like I’m throwing a knife.

The bottle sails from my grasp, spinning end over end, streaking through the air and hitting the grate in a perfect bull’s-eye. It shatters on impact with a loud explosion of glass. The crack is deafening in this confined space. A cloud of red liquid hovers in the air for a split second before splashing onto the floor. The red pool on the stones resembles a prelude to my murder. The air smells sickly sweet.

I don’t know what I thought would happen. I guess I wasn’t thinking much at all. But something in the middle of the puddle of wine catches my eye—it’s the top of the broken bottle I just threw. The neck forms a perfect handle. The bottom is jagged like a shark’s teeth.

I grasp it in my hands. It has weight and feels like a knife. I turn toward the door. My eyes narrow. Grinding my teeth, I tighten my grip on the makeshift weapon. I may not get out of here alive, but I’m not going down without a fight.





Chapter 53

The Watcher




This was what I worried about from the start. My worst fears have come true. I tried, I really did. But you couldn’t—wouldn’t—stop. Now it’s too late. People will get hurt. There’s no other way.

It all comes back to you, Holly. You wouldn’t make the smart choice to pack up and leave. You’re the same way at your job. You stubbornly write book after book, work through word after word, and despite no bestsellers to your name, you keep going.

That kind of determination is admirable in your career, but it’s unsafe here. What did you expect would happen? The girl adores you, Holly. Can’t you see that? She’s searching for answers that need to stay hidden. And now that she’s found a lead, I can’t just keep watching. She knows too much. The girl is just like you—stubborn, persistent, and very intelligent. In short, she’s a threat. And threats will be handled.

I was once a watcher. Now I need to be something else—something I haven’t been in a long, long time. I recall the measures I took in the past to protect myself. The shame still burns. I prepare to become that person once again. I say a prayer for myself. Selfish, I know, because I’m not the one suffering. But I’ll need forgiveness.

I don’t know how the evening will unfold, but I am certain of one thing: Not everyone at the party will make it through the night.





Chapter 54

Holly




Holly experienced the most intense déjà vu of her life as she took in the scene before her. The more things change, the more they stay the same. This could have easily been a Carmichael party from when she was in her twenties—the setup was almost identical.

Tonight, the fountain flowed vigorously, underwater lights casting a serene blue glow on the bronze figures. It was into this pool that Anna had tossed her penny, the course of her life changing irreversibly.

Ethan maneuvered the truck around the circular drive. Despite the constant thrumming from the generators powering the party, Holly could hear the jazz band playing on the beach far below. A red carpet stretched across the lush lawn, guiding people to the stairs they needed to descend to reach the Barefoot Beach Ball. What a royal pain in the ass. A normal person would host this shindig on the large, beautiful open lawn, but not Maeve. She had to stand out.