Chapter 14

CHAPTER 14

"Four? There have been four suicides here?" I repeat, a sickly churn in my stomach. "Oh my god. Were they all students?"

"Three students," Kincaid says. His eyes are glassy as he glances away into the forest. "One researcher."

"Fuck," I swear. "Why the hell wasn't that in your brochure highlighting the dangers? Warning: in addition to not having internet access, students might stumble into a bear, a rabid wolf, or become unsubscribed to life."

"It's not funny, Syd," he says, his tone cold.

My eyes widen. "I don't think it's funny. I think it's horrific. Don't you have to disclose that or something? Shouldn't this be in the news?"

"What happens here never makes the news unless Madrona approves it," he says, a bitter tinge to his voice. "After the third death, we put fail-safes up."

" Your counseling is a fail-safe?" I ask incredulously. "No offense."

It could explain why he has to record everything. Maybe he goes back over the footage and looks for the signs.

I hope to hell he doesn't find any in me.

"It has been."

"But you just said after the third death, you started counseling. When did the fourth death happen?"

"It was the researcher, a couple of years ago," he says quietly. "It was…unexpected."

I shake my head. "Damn. So you were called here just to try to keep the students and researchers from dying? No pressure or anything."

He chuckles, his grave expression loosening. "No, actually. I'm not here because I'm a psychologist. I'm here because I'm a neurosurgeon. They needed someone when they started doing clinical trials. Of course, I happen to have a license in psychology. The two go hand in hand."

"You're a neurosurgeon?" Somehow, he got even sexier.

"Yes, well, I've heard all the brain surgery jokes, believe me," he says, smiling slightly as he starts walking again. "To be honest, I much prefer psychology. People fascinate me. The brain is interesting in of itself, but it's the people who possess the brain that, well, to be sentimental, I guess they give me my purpose."

I follow as he veers off down a narrow deer trail. "Where are we going?"

"Back to the lodge," he says, glancing at me over his shoulder. "You have breakfast waiting."

"Honestly, I'm not very hungry anymore," I say. "I would rather talk to you."

I want to know more about the suicides.

I want to know more about you.

He doesn't say anything for a moment. Fallen branches snap under our feet as we walk, robins calling to each other from a nearby alder. "Very well," he says. "We can talk on my boat. If you don't mind, of course."

Joy fizzes up inside me. He's inviting me on his boat?

"I'd like that," I say, feeling so terribly shy all of a sudden. I dab the handkerchief at my nose again, and luckily, the blood has stopped. "Gives me a chance to wash up before the students wonder what happened to my nose."

"You must promise to eat something though," he says. "I'll whip you up some breakfast."

"Oh, no, seriously, I don't?—"

"It's no bother, Syd. I like to cook. And you need to eat. It's a requirement this morning."

A few seconds pass before I dare to say, "Did anyone ever tell you that you're bossy?"

We step out onto the stone path leading to the docks, where I walk beside him.

"Some people like that I'm bossy," he says with a smirk.

I bet.

I follow him down the ramp, the tide high so that it's almost level, then to his boat.

" Lord of the Rings fan, huh?" I say, gesturing to the name of the boat. Mithrandir . Gandalf's name given to him by the elves.

"Only those worthy pick up on it," he says, climbing on board with ease. "I assume you know it means Grey Wanderer in Sindarin. Until I found myself at Madrona, I was a wanderer myself."

"Nerd," I say under my breath.

He laughs and reaches down, grabbing my hand, holding tight, my skin dancing at his contact. "Just put your foot on the fender step there. That's it. Put all your weight on it and push up."

I push off the horizontal bumper hanging from the open gate, and he pulls me up the rest of the way until I'm on his teak deck. He leads me to the cockpit before he lets go.

"Welcome aboard my humble abode," he says, appraising me. "You seem fairly comfortable on it already."

"Not my first time," I tell him. "I mean, I don't frequent fancy sailboats like this, but my father was a fisherman."

He gives me a polite smile. "Ah, that explains it."

Though he must know what my father did. He'd mentioned his death before, and Michael was the one who brought up the details last night.

You must wonder why death is so fixated on you.

At that thought, I shiver.

"You alright?" Kincaid asks.

"Morning chill," I say. From where we are in the harbor, the sun hasn't quite reached over the tops of the forest yet.

"I'll fix that," he says, reaching into a rubber sleeve that contains a winch and pulling out a key. He inserts it into the wood salon-style doors. "Coffee?"

"Yes, please," I tell him as he opens the doors and slides back a glass hatch, stepping down into the boat.

I go after him, five steps down until we're inside. It's nice and warm down here, with gleaming teak accents, a seat and chart table to the left, a small kitchen to the right. Down a step is the living area, couches and two chairs around a dining table, with another couch across the aisle. Beyond that, a closed door, probably the captain's quarters.

"If you need to wash up, this is the head," he says, gesturing to one of the three doors behind us. "It's a motorized toilet, so you don't have to worry about anything challenging, though if you're used to fishing boats, then I have no doubt you can handle anything. I'll make you coffee."

I thank him and go inside. The space is small but manageable and clean. I use the tiny toilet, terribly self-conscious about the fact that he can hear me pee, though the whir of a Keurig machine quickly covers it up.

After I'm done, I wash my hands, admiring the soap. It's some fancy shit with a black-and-white label, the kind you see on a lifestyle influencer's feed. I sniff my skin. Smells like being a rich neurosurgeon.

I dry my hands on the fluffy monogrammed towel, something about it snagging my memory for a moment before it disappears. I know I shouldn't, but I pull back the knob on the mirror to reveal a medicine cabinet underneath.

I reach in carefully and pull out a thing of oil face wash by some Korean skincare company that costs an arm and a leg at Sephora. There's also a tub of La Mer skin cream that costs even more.

Expensive taste , I think. But we like a man who takes care of his skin.

Curious, I dip my hand over the slight ledge, and my fingers grasp something else. I bring it out and hold it in front of me.

A tube of MAC lipstick.

Oh.

Oh.

A sour taste fills my throat as I pull off the cap.

The color is bright pink, similar to the color Michelle was wearing this morning. No. That's just a coincidence. They can't possibly be an item. That's not possible. I hold it up to the light coming in through the half-drawn curtains above my head and peer at it closer. The shade is a little darker, more subtle and sophisticated than Michelle's.

But regardless of whose it is, there's a lipstick in his medicine cabinet, and so now I'm assuming the facewash and La Mer aren't for him in the end.

Shit. Does he have a girlfriend?

Is he married?

You haven't even done anything , I remind myself. Just a harmless crush and sex dreams that are out of your control. But you better fucking figure it out soon.

I sigh and then use some of that oil cleanser to wash the blood off my face.

When I use the towel again, that's when my brain figures something out.

The monogram on the towel is one of a star and rope intertwined.

The symbol matches the one on the blanket I found on me this morning.

I burst out of the washroom to find him placing two coffees on the table.

"Everything alright?" he asks.

"Did you put that blanket on me last night?" I blurt out.

"I did," he confirms without skipping a beat. He sits down in a chair and gestures to the couch beside him. "Have a seat."

I do as he says, and he slides the mug of coffee toward me. Black, just the way I like it, though I notice he drinks his with cream.

"Everly told me what happened," he says, having a sip of his. I'm only now noticing that he's taken his coat off, so he's wearing just a navy blue Henley that shows off the muscles of his biceps, the width and firmness of his chest and shoulders. I have to pry my eyes away from his body and focus on his face, which of course isn't a hardship.

"But it happened so late," I say. "She said she was going to bed."

"We have a WhatsApp group chat here," he says dryly. "Some nights, I can't get an honest sleep without someone alerting me about something."

Alerting you about what? I want to ask, but I need to stay on track.

"So Everly told me what happened, more or less, and I figured I would go check on you," he says, swallowing down his coffee. "I found you in the common room, sprawled out on the couch and snoring away."

Oh god. How sexy of me.

"I went back to the boat, grabbed a blanket, and put it on you," he says, his palm cradling his mug. "Figured you must have been cold, and I couldn't figure out if I should wake you or not."

"So you were watching me sleep?" That should sound creepy, but somehow, it doesn't.

He lets out a huff of amusement through his nose, his eyes mischievous. "I prefer the term observing. A doctor observing his patient, making sure she's sleeping soundly."

I take a sip of my coffee, and he gestures to it with his chin.

"Sorry it isn't espresso," he says. "The machine is broken, and I haven't had time yet to take it to a repair shop. They aren't easy to come by around here."

"No, the coffee is fine. I like it black."

"Right," he says, scratching at his jaw. "I should have asked you if you wanted cream and sugar with yours. I'm sorry."

"It's perfect," I assure him. "Anyway, well, I guess thank you for looking out for me. My guardian not-angel."

The corners of his eyes crinkle, and he gives me a closed-mouth smile as he stares at me, unabashed. Sometimes he reminds me of a hero from a Victorian novel, the classic features of his face, the timeless quality of that jaw and those high cheekbones, combined with the reservation of a man who's seen a lot but rarely talks about it.

"What?" I ask, feeling myself get pulled into those grey eyes. It's like being lost in the fog.

Careful. Don't keep making the same mistakes. Don't let history repeat.

"Nothing," he says softly.

Man, his psychologist mind must work overtime with me.

"Are you married?" I ask. Like a gun, point-blank, like I should have asked Professor Edwards instead of assuming.

He blinks but doesn't seem taken aback. "No."

"Girlfriend?"

He gives his head a small shake. "No."

"Boyfriend?"

A smile. "No."

Relief floods my veins, though it still doesn't explain the lipstick.

Doesn't mean he doesn't have one-night stands. You're probably not the first student who wanted to jump him. There was probably a girl just like you.

I push that voice away.

"I did have a fiancé many years ago," he says, his voice a little gruff now. "Keiko Lynn. But when I started here, she couldn't handle it. She thought she could, but this wasn't the life for her. Living on a boat in one of the most remote locations on the coast. The isolation, the fog, the rain. My work. She broke it off and moved back to Japan."

"Oh, I'm sorry," I say, feeling dumb now.

He shrugs lightly. "Nothing to be sorry about. Everything happens for a reason. Why do you ask?"

"I'm just curious," I tell him. "You're a neurosurgeon. That's quite the catch. You're also someone who says he used to wander but now…doesn't. I just wondered if you had a family somewhere. Michael had mentioned he has a house in?—"

"When did you speak to Michael?" Kincaid says abruptly, his eyes blazing.

"Uh, last night. When I went to see Everly."

His jaw clenches, his fingers start picking at some tape at the corner of the table where a crack in the wood has formed.

"Something wrong?" I ask. The change in his demeanor is razor-sharp.

He doesn't say anything. "No. I'm just not fond of him."

I exhale noisily. "Whew. Well, that makes two of us. He gives me the fucking creeps."

That brings out a slight smile, though his gaze is still hard. "Good. Stay away from him."

A thrill runs through me. He really is protective.

"But why? He's the COO."

"Just trust me," he says. "He doesn't have your best interests at heart. He doesn't have anyone's best interests at heart. If it were up to him, I wouldn't be counseling anyone or teaching. I would be back in the lab. I would be doing something I don't want to do. That I would have to refuse to do. He doesn't care about the students, no matter what his speech said. He only cares about profit."

"And Everly?" I've been wondering how she can be married to him when they seem so different.

His expression goes neutral. "Everly cares about more than profit." He looks away, licking his lips. "It was her idea for the counseling."

"So who was the first person that died?"

"You're a morbid one, aren't you?"

I shrug.

"Farida," he says quietly, staring down into his coffee. "Farida Shetty. We chalked it up to a troubled mind. She was from India, she'd been missing her home already even before she got here. The isolation made it worse."

"How did she kill herself?"

His gaze flicks up to mine, reproachful. "She hung herself."

"My god."

Then, the image of what I saw when I leaned against the mother cedar flashes across my eyes.

A dark-haired girl in a nightgown, hanging from a tree, her neck broken.

"What was she wearing?" I ask, my voice cracking with fear.

He frowns. "Why?"

"I just want to know," I say quietly. "When did it happen? In the night?"

The line between his brows deepens. "Yes, in the night. Looped the noose off the branch of a strong cedar." Each word is a knife to my gut, twisting my reality. "Ms. Shetty was found in her nightgown by Handyman Keith. He was in hysterics, poor guy. Not sure he's ever really recovered. He's someone who should have counseling, but he's as stubborn as a mule."

I let the information sink in, falling through my skin like melting snow. I stare into my coffee, a black hole.

Nightgown.

Broken.

The girl in the hallway.

"She had dark hair, didn't she?" I whisper.

He doesn't say anything, and when I look up at him, he's staring at me with an expression of quiet horror. That's a look you never want to see on a psychologist.

"Why do you ask?" he asks, his voice strained.

I finish the dregs of my coffee, though it will only make my racing heart worse. "Just wondering," I eventually say, putting the empty mug down.

He studies me for a moment, then plucks the empty mug from the table and gets up, stepping up around to the kitchen behind me. "You're lying to me," he says calmly as he puts the mug under the Keurig. "As punishment, I'm making you breakfast, and you have to eat it."

I don't protest about either one. I really don't want to lie. He already thinks I'm a special case anyway.

Still, I don't explain further. I start nervously picking at the tape at the corner of the table and stare at a painting on the wall, a famous painting of a bald eagle by Robert Bateman. I've seen it so many times before, and yet it still captures my attention. The eagle, posed in a haunting cry as it perches at the top of a dead tree, wings partially spread, the mist and forest a grey cloak behind it.

The Keurig whirs on, breaking the silence, while Kincaid starts taking stuff out of his fridge, placing it on the counter. I hear the click of a propane stove.

When the coffee is done, he puts the full mug in front of me and sits back down. His sleeves are rolled up now to his forearms, showing the end of his tattoo. Up close, I can clearly see the feathers.

"Thank you," I say, holding up the mug. I nod at his tattoo. "A raven?"

"Are you trying to get my shirt off?" he muses.

Don't say yes. Don't say yes.

"Maybe."

Damnit, Sydney.

He smirks. "I'll take my shirt off if you tell me why you asked about Farida's hair."

"That's extortion."

"Take it or leave it."

I watch him for a moment, trying to read him at a deeper level, but as usual, his eyes hold so much back. Is he serious about any of this? Are we flirting? Is he aware that this whole exchange would be considered highly inappropriate, especially since he knows why I lost my scholarship?

He might not be a good man , the thought comes to me, bringing awareness into my bones. He might be a bad man.

And yet, who am I to talk, anyway?

I'm not a good person either.

I look at the painting on the wall. "The reason I left my room last night was because I saw a woman matching that description, in the hall. A woman who then disappeared."

"I see…"

"And before that, I saw an image of her when I was touching a cedar. It felt like…I don't know, this will sound silly?—"

"As silly as ghosts?" he says, as if he's making fun of me, but when I look at him, his expression is grave.

"Worse," I admit. "It felt like the tree gave me that image. Perhaps it was the tree she hung herself from? Either way, I saw a girl in a nightgown, with long dark hair, hanging from a tree. I didn't see her face—it was just a flash, but it was there in my mind, clear as day."

"When was this?"

"On a foraging expedition. The one with Nick where Lauren and I discovered the grave."

He looks off, deep in thought, his face more handsome in profile. "I see." His gaze returns to mine, a fervent look in his eyes, making them look more blue. "And what do you make of that?"

"Ghosts?"

"Do you believe in ghosts?"

"I've always wanted to believe in ghosts. I've never seen any though. Until now. How else would you explain it?"

We both fall silent as we mull that over. Bacon starts to sizzle on the stove.

"Could be a coincidence," he says, getting up, his massive frame towering over me. "Things can always be a coincidence."

I twist around to watch him cook. My sex trifecta has just turned into a quadfecta: large hands, nice forearms, gravelly voice, and the ability to make me breakfast.

"Are you going to take your shirt off now?"

He manages a laugh. "While I'm cooking bacon of all things? I like inflicting punishment, not taking it."

I try not to let my mouth drop open. Did he really just say that?

Damn.

"After the bacon," I tell him.

He shoots me a wry look. "I said I would do it. I didn't say when. Perhaps when I take the group to the lake. We can go swimming."

That's not what I had in mind, but I know better than to push it.

Besides, now that the threat of his shirt coming off is gone, I'm thinking back to what he said about it being a coincidence. That may be fine and dandy about me seeing a woman who looks like Farida who also happened to die in the same way, but it doesn't explain the fact that I saw her to begin with, both in my mind and in the hall.

But then there's a phrase that I've heard at least three times since I've been here.

This place can play tricks on you.