Seven

"Back inside!" Kit shouts, herding Madison toward the boathouse door. "Everyone inside."

Garrett jumps into our path. "My sister is out here."

"No, your sister is out there." Jayla jabs a finger at the lake. "She stole our only fucking way off this island."

"She wouldn't do that," Garrett says. "The boy was murdered, and whoever did it is on the island, but when Sadie disappears, you decide she's fine—she just stole your damn boat."

"Because her things are gone," Kit says, his voice even. "She didn't mean to strand us with a killer. She was upset, and she left. She'll calm down, and in the morning, she'll come back or send a charter. Now we need to get in—"

Garrett crosses his arms. "Prove she took your boat."

"We will," Kit snaps. "Once we're safely in the house. Now move!"

When Garrett stays firm, blocking the doorway, Kit swings past me, but Madison is faster. She charges Garrett and slams both open palms into his stomach.

"Get the hell out of our way," she snarls.

He lifts his hands, backing up. She mistakes the gesture for another block and swings at him, but I catch her arm.

"Okay, okay," Garrett says, looking genuinely chagrined. "I'm sorry, kiddo. Of course, let's get you to the house."

"We will look for Sadie," I say as I prod Madison past him. "We aren't going to presume she left until we're sure she did."

"Even if we are sure," Jayla mutters behind me.

I get Madison out of the boathouse. Kit darts in front of us, and I'm about to barrel past him when I realize why he's taken the lead. Because I'm striding into the dark night, while Nate's killer is on the island and we've been making enough noise arguing to let a marching band sneak up on us.

Nate's killer.

His image flashes, and the memory of his hand.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

"Everyone stay together," Kit whispers. "Jayla, eyes right. Laney, eyes left. Garrett, bring up the rear, please."

"No one put you in charge. I'm the—"

"—asshole who doesn't know when to shut up," Madison snaps. "Kit even added a ‘please,' just for you. Stop swinging your dick."

Garrett blinks. I brace, but he gives a curt nod, falls in behind, and we start forward. Kit told me to keep my eyes left. It's open rock, with forest behind. It's also the same side of the house with the broken lights. The same side where Nate's hand—

Stop. Focus.

The world seems to end after the rocky shore, the forest beyond a black hole. Ten people could be poised at the edge, and I wouldn't see them. I concentrate on the rocks instead, the lichen-dappled stone that stretches for fifty feet before reaching that forest's edge.

I strain to listen for unusual sounds, but the slap of water on rock would drown them out. We continue, step by step, until we reach the front door. I slide forward to punch in the code as the others stand watch.

I lift my finger to the first button. Then I stop and turn the knob. The door opens.

I fall back, shielding Madison.

"It's unlocked," I blurt. "Someone's in…" I trail off and turn to Jayla. "Did you come out the front?"

"Yeah," Jayla says. "And we didn't lock it behind us."

"Because we don't have the damn code," Garrett says.

"You don't need it," Kit says. "Just hit the lock button and turn the knob."

Garrett ignores him and pushes past us.

I catch his arm. "If the door was unlocked, someone could be in there."

He starts to snap something and then stops as he realizes I'm right. He might be the cop in this group, but I'm the mystery writer—I know all the tricks.

Being a cop means Garrett does, apparently, know how to enter an unsecured area. He motions for Kit to cover him, earning an eye roll from Jayla, who takes the task instead, her knife in hand. Garrett swings through and smacks on the lights.

They both enter as Kit and I keep watch on the open landscape behind us.

"Clear," Garrett says.

We cluster in the front hall as he heads into the massive great room with Jayla covering him.

I lock the door and set the alarm. When it doesn't work, I look up to see a red light flashing. Below it, in my handwriting, a tag reads MAIN BEDROOM.

"Something's open in our—your bedroom," Kit says. "The balcony door or a window."

I shake my head. "The balcony sensor is wonky." I hit the code again, and that warning light disappears. "See?"

"I'll get that fixed," he says.

I open my mouth, the argument reflexive, before Madison's elbow reminds me this is not the time. I glance at Kit. His expression says his brain is whirring to process the current situation, and he probably didn't even register what he said, the reassurance being equally reflexive.

"Clear in here," Jayla calls back.

"Secure," I call when the system switches on.

"I wouldn't say that," Garrett mutters. "We might as well be standing on the damn lawn."

I see what he means. That glorious wall of windows completely exposes us to the outside. There's also the winding staircase with the second-floor hallway overlooking the great room, which attaches to the kitchen and dining area.

I love the openness of Hemlock House, so airy and spacious, with its sweeping views, but now, the open concept means an attack could come from any direction. Having a security system made me feel safe. Now it's almost laughable.

"We should check the rooms with doors," I say. "Close them as we go."

"And this?" Garrett waves at the bank of windows. "Please tell me this fancy house has electronic blinds."

It doesn't need them, and that's another thing I love. At home, with a front sidewalk within spitting distance, my blinds stay closed. Here, I can lounge in my underwear all day.

Right now, those windows are a fishbowl, where anyone out there can see us and we can see only darkness.

"No blinds," I say.

Garrett gapes at me in exaggerated disbelief.

"It's a private island," I say. "We don't have to worry about neighbors or passersby, and yes, weirdly, we never considered the possibility of having to hide from a killer."

"The fact that it's a private island is the very reason you need to worry about that. Aren't you an author now? What if one of your fans tracks you down?"

"I'm a debut novelist. I'll worry about that when I actually have fans. Speaking of my job, I'm going to start the search with my office."

"Kit can go with you," Madison says. "Jayla and I will secure the laundry room. Asshole Cop Dude can take the bathroom. He should be able to handle that alone."

"My name is Garrett, kiddo."

"And when you stop acting like an asshole cop, I'll use it."

"Search the rooms and shut the doors," I say. "We'll reconvene back here and then tackle the second level."

There's no one on the main level. We shut off all the rooms, and then head upstairs. Kit and I will take the room Sadie used. Jayla and Garrett already searched it. Time for fresh eyes.

I'd been distracted during the room assignments. Otherwise, I'd have realized there was no way Sadie snuck in with Kit… because he was sharing the twin-bed room with Garrett. Jayla had volunteered for the green room, which may prove that, like me, she can't help still caring a little about our former friend, however unwittingly. Putting Sadie in the green room—the site of the bloody-scratches closet—would be a shit move. Jayla took it instead.

That left Sadie with Madison's room. It's not just the room Madison uses while she's here. It's actually hers and has been since Hemlock House was lines on a sketch pad.

"Mads should have her pick of the guest rooms," Kit had said. "Let her choose it and get her input and make it really hers."

That may have been the moment when I realized I loved him. Yes, I suppose that should have come before I said "I do." When I stepped into the wedding chapel, I knew I was falling for him, but it wasn't until that moment that the feeling solidified into something that felt like forever.

At that time, Anna's prognosis had been good, and Madison was just my thirteen-year-old niece. That wasn't someone you typically give her own bedroom in your new vacation home. But Kit understood the role Madison played in my life. She would be a regular visitor at Hemlock House, and he acknowledged that as if it was never in question.

The bedrooms are arranged along a central corridor that overlooks the main level. The main bedroom takes up one corner, with the small green bedroom beside it, the slightly larger twin-bed room next, and then Madison's in the opposite corner. Yes, it's the farthest from ours, and that was Kit's doing, which I'd agreed with once I figured out why. Having Madison as a houseguest wouldn't cramp our style; having her bedroom right beside ours might.

Her room, like ours, has windows along both exterior walls, with a seat in one and a small balcony off the other. When she's here, the room is—as my mother puts it—an apocalyptic disaster zone. Of course, Mom first used those words to describe my teenage bedroom, so Madison comes by it honestly. Now, though, it's ready for renters and, when Kit and I step inside, a pang stabs through me.

This is supposed to be Madison's room. Her personal space where she had the freedom to slap up K-drama posters and hand-paint the furniture and make as much of a mess as she wanted because it was hers. Renting it changed all that. Take down the posters. Paint the walls neutral. Replace the furniture. Stuff all her clothing and belongings in a locked trunk to be shoved into the crawlspace between visits.

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

And whose fault is that? Blame me for being too sentimental—and stubborn—to sell the island. Blame Kit for giving me a glimpse of a dream I can't let go. Blame the pandemic for upending our lives, for incinerating my marriage and hurrying along Anna's death with delayed treatments, both events sending me spiraling into financial chaos when I could least afford it.

Blame everyone. Blame no one.

It's just a damn bedroom. At least it's still here, and it's still Madison's, and she's never once complained.

So why does it hurt so much? Because everything hurts these days, and now I'm standing in her doorway, imagining this room evaporating before my eyes, because it doesn't matter if we're safely in the house with a security system and nothing else goes wrong. How am I going to keep Hemlock House after what's happened? After finding Nate's…?

When I shiver, Kit steps up behind me, his arms going around my waist, and I don't stop him. I close my eyes, and I picture Nate. I see him smiling, always smiling, no matter what new joker card life dealt him. His mom long gone, his dad an alcoholic, Nate working his ass off to go to college, only to be ripped back to this nowhere life by the pandemic.

"It's fine," he'd say. "I'll get out next year, and someday I'll come back and be able to rent this place myself. This is just a pothole in the road, and I've got a long way to go yet."

My stomach seizes.

"Why don't you sit down?" Kit whispers. "I've got this."

I shake my head and pull from his grip. Then I turn on the bedroom light and look around as he heads for the balcony door. He checks that as I pace around the room.

I can see why Jayla and Garrett came back so quickly. It's obvious that Sadie grabbed her things and left. Her overnight bag is gone. The tiny en suite bath shows signs of pre-bedtime use—a damp hand towel and a toothpaste streak in the sink, plus a grease mark from moisturizer or makeup remover. I open the cabinet and vanity drawers. Empty but for the unopened toothpaste and toothbrushes I leave for guests.

I head into the bedroom, where Kit is checking under the bed.

"She got ready for the night," I say. "Signs of brushing her teeth and washing up. She used the bed, too, and remade it." The bedspread is in place, but rumpled, as if pulled up over the sheets in a half-assed effort. "Everything points to her leaving on her own. Garrett complained about not having the door code, but I gave Sadie that and the security code to pass on to him."

At my words, I stop and turn to Kit.

"Check the access logs," we say, almost in unison.

"I'll go down and do that," Kit says. "You okay up here?"

"I am. Go on."

It's only after he leaves that I realize we failed to secure the room on entering. I'd been distracted, thinking about Nate, but it's still embarrassing after we told Garrett we could handle it. We should have entered, checked the bathroom and closet first, then under the bed, then the balcony. All the places an intruder could hide.

I eye the closet door.

Should I call Kit back? Or get Jayla?

The answer, obviously, is yes. That is the smart thing to do. But it seems silly, and I don't want to be that woman, even if I recognize, deep down, that not calling for backup makes me another stereotype—the woman so intent on being tough that she takes unnecessary risks.

And in the time it takes me to work that through, I find myself at the closet door, knob in one hand, kitchen knife in the other as I yank it open. A squeak in the closet has me staggering back, knife rising, until I realize that my yank set the empty hangers rocking.

There's a rack with a dozen hangers and two shelves with extra blankets and pillows. Nothing else.

I close the door… and a figure moves behind it. I manage to bite off a yelp as I realize the figure is me, reflected in the dresser mirror. I shake my head and glance at the door to be sure the others didn't hear my yelp. When no one comes running, I walk to the dresser. I reach for the first drawer and pause. There's dust on the top of it. I bend and squint. Yep, definitely dust, which is not at all like—

Tears prickle. Damn it, stop thinking about Nate. Yes, he deserves every tear, but I can't afford them yet. Later I will mourn. For now, I can pretend that hand could have belonged to someone else. Whatever gets me through this night.

I open the top drawer to find candy wrappers. Huh. Did Sadie develop a sweet tooth? I remember when Jayla and I would swoop down on the candy aisle like vultures spotting road kill, while Sadie would riffle through every bag of trail mix looking for one without chocolate.

I pick up the wrappers. Kid's candy, the cheap kind you can buy at the store in town.

The guests before the Abbases had two young sons. That would mean Nate didn't finish cleaning in here.

I remember the laundry note downstairs, and then I look at the dust on the dresser top.

Nate didn't finish cleaning between the Abbases and the guests before them.

Because that's when he was killed.

No, that isn't possible. The Abbases arrived two days ago and…

And what? Someone would have reported Nate missing? Who? His alcoholic father who—if I'm remembering right—recently went into hospice?

I look around the room. Does that mean the signs of habitation aren't from Sadie?

I walk back into the bathroom and touch the inside of the sink. No, the toothpaste smear hasn't set, and the towel is still damp.

I head into the bedroom. Was the bed left like this from the last guests, their son "making his bed" by pulling up the coverlet?

As I walk over, I remember the laundry room. The alternate bedding for this room had been folded on the counter, freshly laundered. That means Nate had started working on this room. He made the bed and cleaned the bathroom but hadn't gotten to the dresser.

I move to the top of the bed, looking for signs that Sadie had crawled in and slept part of the night. I tug back the coverlet—

I stumble back, hand slapping over my mouth.

There's blood on the pillow. Blood and a hank of hair… with a torn chunk of scalp still attached.