“You don’t think burning through his throat with a gun won’t be a little suspicious? That’s not how normal people kill.”
He cocks a brow. “First off, there is no such thing as a normal killer. And do I need to remind you of Kacey’s face? They will see that, too. I’ll tell them the barrel of the gun was laying in the fire and had no bullets, so I was forced to improvise. I think they’ll let it go.”
“What about me? The real me—not the Trinity me.”
“Sylvester has a gravesite in the cellar below. One of them is you.”
I rear back in shock. It feels like he reached into my chest and fisted my heart until it’s mush. Sylvester’s been killing people for God knows how long. They must’ve been from the freight ships or maybe from those seeking shelter from a storm. And he just… murdered them.
“What if none of the skeletal remains match? What if they’re all men or something? Or can be identified by their teeth?”
“Then we hope they assume that Sylvester disposed of the body elsewhere. But you’re the real Sawyer, and we can make sure there’s evidence that you were here.”
Twisting my lips, I contemplate that. My freedom isn’t riding on if I can convince them that I was here—only if I can convince them that I am not her.
My eyes slide over to Kacey lying on the floor, lifeless and leeching of warmth by the second. It feels grimy to take advantage of her death. To pretend to have suffered alongside her and claim a story that isn’t mine.
But it’s my only way out if I want to live freely and not have to restart in another country. Away from Enzo.
Maybe it’ll be the last shitty thing I’ll ever have to do.
Focusing back on Enzo, I slump my shoulders and nod.
“Okay,” I agree. “I’ll be Trinity. And Sawyer will die with the rest of them.”
The freezing ocean water licks at my calves, sending a wave of goosebumps across my skin. The sand is drug out from beneath me as the sea’s chilly fingers retreat. The sun will rise within the hour, and it’s still cold, but I see it. Gleaming beneath the bright beacon light.
Enzo stands behind me, arms crossed and a frown marring his face as he stares out at the approaching coast guard boat. Twenty-four days on this island, yet it feels like it’s been years.
Sadness punches me right in the chest. Kacey should be out here, too. Sitting beside me and waiting for her rescue.
Enzo’s already spent the last five minutes arguing with me to get out of the water before I catch a cold. His eye started twitching when I told him I’m very good at dodgeball and promised to duck if I saw a cold coming my way.
I thought it was funny.
I flip the letter in my hand, the sole evidence that Sawyer Bennett lived and died on Raven Isle.
It feels like forever ago when I was sitting on a beach, smoking a cigarette and wishing for death with a man I never learned the name of.
Now here I am, once more sitting on a beach, but no longer wanting anything to do with cigarettes, and behind me is a man I’ll never forget.
Despite all that, I still have the same conclusion. Death—cancer—it all tastes like shit.
It takes another ten minutes before the boat reaches us, and the moment it does, I’m reduced to a pile of blubbering emotions. Tears are springing to my eyes, and I’m not sure whether to feel relief or anxiety.
This won’t be the first time I’ve had to pretend to be someone I’m not. But this just might be the last.
Chapter 35
Sawyer
“Enzo Vitale?” one of the coast guards questions from the other end of the boat, checking over Enzo’s wounds. “There was a massive search party for you, but they didn’t look out this way. You’re far out from the Australian coast.”
I can’t hear what Enzo murmurs back, but as usual, he looks positively annoyed.
I turn my attention back to the coast guard treating my wounds just as he finishes putting the splint on my wrist.
“Thanks, Jason,” I say.
Enzo found the keys to the cuffs on Sylvester’s dead body, but the bright red rings of irritation remain, accompanied by the laceration on my hand.
“We’ll get you to a hospital to have it properly treated,” he responds.
He already noted the tattoo on my leg, but Enzo and I decided trying to hide it would only seem suspicious. If they don’t see it now, they’ll most likely see it in the hospital.
We decided to say it was an act of rebellion against Sylvester, and considering it’s definitely not professional—it’s believable. I've never been gladder that my first tattoo was by a man at a bus stop.