Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 81887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Chapter 4
Damiano
I watch her from the treeline as she carries boxes from the house to the terrace. Third trip now. She’s pushing herself too hard, her breath forming small clouds in the morning air. Her hair catches the weak sunlight as she pauses, hand pressed against the stone balustrade, taking a moment before she heads back inside.
She really shouldn’t be lifting stuff. Not with how her body constantly rebels against her.
The greenhouse gives me cover, a legit excuse to be here, taking care of the grounds, watching the big house. But let’s be real, I’d be watching anyway. Something about Briar Waters draws me. Maybe it’s her defiance, the way she pushes against her limitations. Or maybe it’s simpler, the way her hair looks like it’s holding moonlight, how her skin has that translucent quality like some rare orchid I’ve been trying to grow for years.
Shit. I sound like one of my dad’s angsty poems. This is exactly why I keep to myself.
I clip a branch with more force than necessary, adding it to my collection. Echinacea root, yarrow leaves, angelica. Each goes into separate pockets of my work vest. Later, I’ll dry them, grind them, mix them with other things from deeper in the forest—things that don’t exactly grow in gardens where just anyone can see them.
She appears again, this time with strings of lights tangled in her hands. A party. Mrs. Fletcher mentioned it when she left this morning, worry practically carved into her face as she asked me to “keep an eye on things” while she was gone. Like I wouldn’t do that anyway.
I know all about keeping watch. Been doing it since I was ten, when I learned the hard way how fast people can vanish on this island.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I ignore it. Probably Flint, and I’m so not in the mood for his crap today. Last night at The Vault was enough. His hands on me, angry and demanding, his mouth tasting like whiskey and lies. Same old pattern. We crash into each other like wrecking balls, leave each other in pieces, then pretend we’re total strangers until next time.
Through the windows, I can see Briar moving around the great room, pushing furniture to create open space. Whatever she’s planning, it’s definitely bigger than “just a few friends.” The house has been closed to visitors for years. Maxwell Waters doesn’t bring his business buddies here anymore. Not since his wife died.
I could go up there. Offer to help. Tell her she should rest between trips, that her lips are turning blue from the cold. But then she’d ask questions I don’t want to deal with. Like how I know so much about her condition. Or why I even care.
So I stick to the cypress shadows, moving when I need to keep her in view. Not stalking. Just watching over. There’s a difference.
The afternoon stretches on as the sky darkens slightly with gathering clouds. Cars begin arriving, first a trickle and then a steady flow. The delivery vans come first, caterers from the mainland hauling food and supplies that practically scream “Waters money.” Then the rental people with extra chairs, portable heaters for the terrace, speakers for music. All arranged through phone calls Briar made yesterday after visiting town.
I move closer to the house as the sun starts to drop. The fog is rolling in early tonight, thick with moisture, swallowing the lower garden. Perfect cover for me.
From behind a stone statue, Neptune with his trident I’ve deliberately covered in moss, I watch the catering staff arrange platters of food inside. Through the French doors, I can see Briar directing them. She’s wearing white, a flowing dress that reminds me of The Hunt, women in their ghostly nightgowns before they sprint barefoot through the darkness. Her dark hair pulled half-up shows the delicate curve of her neck, making her look like the perfect target. Whether she realizes the significance of her outfit, it will send a message to certain guests who’ve yet to arrive. She seems stronger today. The herbs I left for her must be working.
That’s something at least.
She catches sight of me through the window as she turns. Our eyes lock for a moment before I step back into the shadows. Let her wonder. Better than explaining why I’m lurking outside like some creeper. Though that’s exactly what I’m doing.
My phone buzzes again. This time I check it.
Heard about the Waters girl’s party. Looks like unofficial Hunt season is starting early this year. You playing security guard tonight? Or are you actually invited?
Flint. Always knowing exactly which buttons to push.
I don’t respond. But the message confirms what I suspected, this isn’t going to be “just a few friends.” If Flint knows about it, half the island does—including people who have no business getting anywhere near Briar Waters.