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)
Damiano nods, setting down the bottle. “Yeah.” He reaches into a drawer and pulls out something wrapped in brown paper. “Here. Put a spoonful in hot water before bed. Might help you sleep.”
I accept the package, our fingers brushing briefly. His skin burns against my ice-cold hand. “Is it poison?” I ask, only half-joking.
His eyes lock with mine, dark and unreadable. “I guess you’re just going to have to trust me.” He moves to open the door. “The maze looks better in the morning when the fog lifts a bit. I’m usually there early if you want a tour of all the changes I made.”
Outside, the cold hits me like a slap, the fog so thick I could reach out and grab handfuls. I clutch the little paper package, stupidly grateful for his strange gift.
“Thank you,” I say, simply.
“Don’t thank me yet,” he says, his tall figure filling the greenhouse doorway, backlit and imposing. “See if it works first. I hope it helps.”
I return to the house, feeling his eyes tracking me until I turn at the hedge that marks the maze entrance. In my pocket, I curl my freezing fingers around the package of herbs, my mind racing with questions about this strange man who talks about poisons and secret paths like they’re casual conversation topics.
Maybe island exile won’t be so boring after all.
Chapter 3
Briar
Morning hits me like a truck, yanking me out of the deepest sleep I’ve had since forever. Sunlight streams through the lace curtains—not the blackout ones I need in Seattle. The herbal stuff from Damiano sits half-empty on my nightstand. Whatever was in that cup knocked me out better than anything my doctors have prescribed in years.
I grab my phone, checking the time. 9:17 AM. Late, by my father’s standards. Three missed calls from him and a text:
Call me immediately. Need update on your condition.
Once again, not How did you sleep? or How are you feeling today? Just demanding his status report like I’m one of his business deals. I toss aside the phone without responding. Let him wait.
Downstairs, Mrs. Fletcher bustles around the kitchen, already preparing lunch. The aroma of fresh bread fills the air, comforting in its normality.
“Good morning.” She eyes me with approval. “You have color in your cheeks today. Did you sleep well?”
“Better than I have in months,” I admit, pouring myself coffee from the carafe. “Something about island air, I guess.”
She nods, but her gaze flicks toward the small brown paper package I’ve brought down with me. Damiano’s herbs. I’ve wrapped the remainder carefully, intending to ask him what exactly was in that mixture. Not that I don’t trust him—which is weird, considering I just met the guy—but my scientist brain wants details.
“I should have mentioned this yesterday, but I leave tomorrow for the weekend,” Mrs. Fletcher says, wiping her hands on her apron. “My sister in Anacortes is having her fiftieth wedding anniversary. I already told your father I’d be away for it.”
“That’s fine,” I say, sipping my coffee. It’s strong and perfect.
“I’ve left some meals for you in the fridge, all labeled with heating instructions.” She pauses, looking worried. “If you don’t want to be alone, I could ask Marjorie from town to stop by—”
“I’ll be fine,” I cut in, maybe too quickly. “Seriously. I’m not dying.” I take another sip of my coffee. “I know my father may have painted a different picture, but I really can take care of myself.”
Her face says she’s not buying it, but she nods anyway. “Well, I’ve put emergency numbers on the fridge, including the island clinic.”
“Thank you.” I drum my fingers against the ceramic mug, suddenly realizing something. “Wait... tomorrow’s the seventeenth?”
“Yes, it is.”
My birthday.
Twenty-eight years of existence, and not a single soul on this island cares or knows. Not even my father remembered in his morning text. Pretty on-brand, honestly.
And pretty fucking sad.
“Everything all right, Miss Briar?”
I force a smile. “Perfect. I just realized I need to... make some plans.”
Plans. Weird how foreign that word feels after years of having doctors and my dad run my entire life. When was the last time I decided to do something fun? I can’t even remember the last time I celebrated anything.
A dangerous idea starts forming—ridiculous, impulsive, exactly what Maxwell Waters would disapprove of. Which makes it instantly appealing.
“Mrs. Fletcher, are those party boxes still in the basement? The stuff Mom used for her summer parties?”
She looks confused by my random question. “I think so. In the storage behind the wine cellar. Your father hasn’t touched them since—”
“Since Mom died. Yeah, I know.” I stand up, suddenly pumped with energy. “I think I’ll have some people over tomorrow night. Nothing crazy.”
The lie comes out super easily. I don’t have a single friend on this island. I barely have friends anywhere, unless you count my physical therapist who sends me cat memes after sessions.