Wow. That’s fucked up. I need to find a therapist when I get home.
“Sylvester is gone,” Enzo says, his brow pinched with concern.
“You went back without me?” I ask, a little angry that he went alone. “Where did he go? How did he get out?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t know. The lock on the cellar was unlatched, so I don’t know if he slammed up against it until it came out or what. Regardless, we’re taking over, finding that fucking beacon, and contacting someone to come get us.”
Uneasiness floods my system.
His disappearing doesn’t make me feel better. Wherever he is, he’s still on this island. Sylvester knows this place far better than we do.
He’s not gone. He’s hiding.
But we can’t stay in this cave forever. We have no food or water, and my bladder is taking the opportunity to remind me that I need to pee really bad. And while I could squat in the corner of the cave somewhere, that’s not exactly an option for when the beans decide to go through me.
“He probably has a gun,” I surmise. Sylvester has several guns, and if Enzo could’ve predicted the possibility of him escaping, I know those guns would not have been left in the lighthouse overnight.
I feel terrible asking him to stay here instead. Sylvester never would’ve gotten free otherwise.
Enzo nods. “But so do we. We just need to be careful tonight.”
“Okay,” I mumble, my face contorting as I stand.
Jesus, my back hurts so bad, but it’s my own fault. I did want to sleep here, after all. And I don’t regret it. It was refreshing waking up to a different view, even if I did worry that one of the silk strings would drop into my mouth while I was sleeping.
When I straighten, Enzo is staring at me like a crazy person again.
“What?”
“You’re in pain,” he states bluntly.
I give him a side-eye. “Yeah, and?”
His eyes drop to the floor, like he’s considering punching the inanimate rock for daring to throw my back out of place. Ultimately, he grabs the blanket and shotgun, then lifts his eyes and says, “I’ll take care of that later. Let’s go, baby.”
Hesitating for only a moment—mainly because this new version of him still weirds me out—I trudge after him, being careful to keep the pain off my face. He keeps glancing back at me, as if expecting me to keel over and curl up like a dead spider any second—which usually only happens after he fucks me.
As we near the lighthouse, my heart begins to race. The sky is dark gray, the near-constant storms plaguing Raven Isle like it has a personal vendetta against it.
It only makes the lighthouse appear more sinister—the chipped red and white rings around the building darkening the atmosphere of the island. It feels like I’m in one of those horror video games. I’m forced to go into the scary place because that’s how I beat the game, but I know something in there will try and kill me. Every step is filled with dread, and it feels as if my heart is being weighed down by the doom headed my way.
Enzo readies the shotgun and quietly opens the front door, the loud creaking of the hinges shattering the silence.
The energy is thick in here—heavy like a weighted blanket. Except this isn’t the kind that makes you feel warm and safe, but everything opposite.
“Stay quiet,” Enzo whispers. I nod, though he’s not looking at me anyway, and shut the door as silently as possible. Which isn’t very quiet given the hinges sound like they came from a different century and have never been oiled.
He quickly walks to the kitchen, grabs a huge knife that Sylvester uses to fillet the fish, and then walks back to hand it to me.
“Stay here. I’m going to check every room to make sure he’s gone. If you see him, stab him.”
I stare down at the knife and begin to shake, nearly stabbing Enzo in my attempt to hand it back. I’d rather take the gun.
“No, thanks,” I say, my voice uneven and tight.
His brows lower. “Sawyer, I’m not leaving you unprotected. You need to take it.”
“Can’t I just go with you? Haven’t you seen the horror movies? Separating is never a good idea. And I’m in more danger of getting shot if you’re not here.”
“I’d still like you to hold on to it,” he insists, grabbing my wrist and forcing it in my fist. My face twists with discomfort, but I don’t argue.
He studies me closely, almost critically, as if trying to figure out a math problem. Eventually, he turns and heads toward the staircase while I follow close behind.