New York was massive. But it was also a small town. My town. And it would never stop being a part of me—as much as the skin that stretched across my bones. I would carry it with me always. It was just everything else I needed freedom from. The darkness that had crept into my life when a man had taken my creations and turned them into walking death.
3
Shay
I made my way down the stairs and towards the open living and dining space. One more walk-through. Just to make sure everything was perfect. The cleaning crew had come yesterday, and I’d hovered so much, they’d almost throttled me. I’d already boxed up and sent all of the Dowds’ personal belongings to Seattle. But the new owner was keeping the furniture in the house.
Brody James. The enigma who would hopefully be my new boss. I wiped my hands on my jeans, but my palms simply dampened again. He would like me. No, he would think I was the best caretaker he’d ever encountered.
I’d hounded his assistant, Lara, for a list of his favorite foods. The household brands he preferred. Was there anything she thought he’d need from the mainland that I should order now? The woman probably thought I was a head case.
I wasn’t crazy. I was determined. To stay. My fingers traced the raised scar on my stomach through the thin cotton of my t-shirt. Habit. A way of reminding myself that I could never be too careful. Too much was at stake.
With that in mind, my gaze traveled over the kitchen. I moved to the counter, adjusting the vase of flowers. I already had Mr. James’ favorite beer chilling in the refrigerator. Along with an artfully arranged charcuterie board that only needed to be unwrapped and set out.
Plenty of belongings had been sent ahead. I’d moved all of the boxes marked clothing to the closet. I’d wanted to open them to get a feel for the man by way of his garments but had thought better of it. I doubted he would be prepared for island weather coming from New York. I’d already begun a list of things he’d likely need me to order. A heavy-duty rain jacket, muck boots.
But maybe his lack of preparedness meant that he wouldn’t be spending much time at the estate. I glanced out the wall of windows at the back of the house and knew I was wrong. Four large crates marked studio had arrived, along with the rest of Mr. James’ belongings. No one brought that much stuff if they only planned on staying for the summers and an occasional long weekend or two.
My lips pressed into a firm line as I headed out of the main house and followed the path down the hill. I passed the vegetable garden and the greenhouse. The small chicken coop that provided more than enough fresh eggs. Finally, I arrived at the guest house. My home. My haven.
I pulled open the door, inhaling the soothing scent of lavender from the candle I’d burned earlier in the day. A touchstone. The therapist I’d seen after my attack had advised that I should build as many of them into my daily routine as possible. Things that reminded me I was safe. A scent. A sound. A feeling.
Years later, I’d kept up with the habit. Lavender. The sea. A smooth beach stone. Those things and my music always helped me fight the memories.
Over the past three years, I’d slowly made the small cottage my home. I’d come to it with virtually nothing. The quilt my mother and aunt had made me. My violin. The bare minimum clothing. Photos I couldn’t bear to look at. But bit by bit, I’d infused myself into the space. A painting by a local artist. An antique tray from Second Chances. Stacks of sheet music. It was mine now, and I wouldn’t leave it without a fight.
I crossed to the small desk in the living space and eased into the chair. I hit a few keys on my laptop and signed in. Thankfully, an internet connection was one thing the Dowds had insisted upon when they moved in. Everything else on Harbor was self-sufficient. Solar panels and a generator. A filtration system to remove the salt from our water source. The greenhouse and the chickens. But Paul Dowd had insisted on satellite internet for the estate.
I opened a separate window on my laptop and signed into my virtual private network. My brother had always had a thing for computers, and this was an extra layer of precaution. Because with Michael’s good behavior, he’d been granted more privileges. And one of those was computer access. I’d deleted all of the email addresses and social media accounts associated with my name after the first message I’d received from him. I miss you, sissy. Come visit. We haven’t finished our game.
I shuddered and pulled my fleece tighter around me, zipping it up. As if the warmth of the fabric could chase away the chill of the memories. I logged onto my messaging site and pulled up the latest from my thread with Evergreen13.
Evergreen13: Did you peek in the crates? I would have. What if they’re hiding dead bodies?
I snorted and typed out a reply.
Phoenix26: Things would be smelling a lot worse if there were dead bodies.
Evergreen13: True. You holding up okay? What time does Mr. Enigma get there?
The tension that had turned my shoulders to granite eased a bit. No matter how alone I felt at times, I always had E. I didn’t know her real name or where she was located, but she’d been my lifeline since we met on a messaging thread about how to live under the radar.
I’d been a lurker on the forum for months before finally commenting on a post. Ever since I’d come to terms with the fact that Michael would get out one day. I’d abandoned thoughts of college and conservatory programs. I’d focused on how to stay alive.
And E had been a godsend in that arena. She was far more knowledgeable than I was. Over four years ago, she’d begun giving me advice over a messaging app. Soon, a friendship was born. We didn’t know everything about each other, but with the things that did slip, I was sure we could’ve figured out each other’s identities. But the silent promise between us was that we wouldn’t try.
Phoenix26: I’m fine. A.k.a. slowly going out of my mind trying to make sure everything’s perfect for Enigma’s arrival. And he gets here in…shit…fifteen minutes. I need to go. I want to meet him at the dock when he arrives.
Evergreen13: You’re going to do great, and he’s going to beg you to stay on.
Phoenix26: I hope you’re right. I’ll message you tonight and let you know how it went. Later, gator.
Evergreen13: After a while, crocodile.
I pushed back from the desk and stood. Making a small detour to the closet, I surveyed my appearance. What the heck did you wear to meet your new boss when your job included pulling weeds and cleaning up chicken poop? I was currently going with my favorite pair of jeans—the kind worn so often they automatically molded to your body—a long-sleeved cotton tee, and a fleece jacket. My boots were worn but not falling apart. And my hair was currently swept back in a braid. Makeup had become a thing of the past long ago. Honestly, it would feel weird to put it on now.
I met my eyes in the mirror. The gold flecks in my hazel eyes seemed to stand out today, almost glowing against the green. “You can do this. Professional. Composed. Every detail handled.”
With one last silent promise to myself, I turned away from my reflection and headed out of my guest house and towards the dock. The scent of the salt in the air and the sound of the water did nothing to help calm my nerves. Anxiety took hold and refused to release.
An old mantra took root in my brain. Feel the fear and do it anyway. I’d seen it on one of those arty quote graphics. No idea who’d said it. But it had stayed with me throughout my recovery and after. I couldn’t change whether or not I was scared or anxious, but I could keep moving forward.