The silence is so complete I can hear Naomi Vine breathing. The sound is too shallow, as if she’s running a fever, but at least she’s alive. We’re lying in a large, well-equipped office. There’s a blackout blind over the side window, the only illumination coming from the skylight overhead, whenever the moon emerges.
My head’s still pounding, but at least my vision’s clearer; the intermittent moonlight mean I can assess Vine’s injuries. It looks like she’s been used as a human punchbag: one of her cheekbones is broken and her left eye is puffed shut. She must be freezing too, only wearing a vest top and jeans, her feet bare. Her hands and ankles are bound together with rope. I can’t tell whether she’s asleep or drugged. Her slim figure looks so frail against the dark carpet, a rush of anger worsens my headache. The killer is prepared to hurt anyone from outside the island, even if they’ve done nothing wrong.
I try to call Vine’s name, but release only a gush of air. This must be how Jimmy Curwen feels: my thoughts are clear, yet my tongue feels as heavy as lead. I’m still trying to form a sentence when a tapping noise comes from outside. It sounds like footsteps, but could just be the house settling as wind gusts in from the sea. I have no choice but to wait until the killer reappears, with dawn less than an hour away. The anger inside my chest is rising to a boil, but my body feels leaden. I’ll have to accept whatever the killer deals out, until my limbs start moving again.
The gathering light reveals that Vine is waking up, moaning quietly to herself. I’d almost lost hope of finding her alive. The sight of her hands twitching on the sodden carpet fills me with relief, even though I’m powerless. I can’t guess how much the sculptor has suffered since she was taken, but she’s still fighting. There’s a spark of rebellion in her eyes when they finally open, even though the room is a tinderbox, waiting to catch fire.