There was an attraction between them. She was sure of that, and yet, Bennett Reynolds had not tried to kiss her when they’d said goodbye on the curb, their skin illuminated by a single streetlamp, shadows elongated and stretching into the street. Although now that she was removed from the situation, perhaps his lips had brushed the soft spot beneath her jaw when he’d hugged her. She pressed two fingers to her neck, as though feeling for a pulse. Her skin tingled in response to her icy fingertips.
Would she have let him kiss her, she wondered. If he’d leaned in and pressed his mouth to hers, would the alcohol in her blood have persuaded her to kiss him back? She could do—and had certainly done—much worse than Bennett Reynolds.
But those memories were behind her now. Overwritten like all the others.
Houses zipped by on the road that would lead her back to her parents. Aside from a wind-beaten wreath clinging to every other door and the occasional string of multicolored lights hanging from gutters, the residents of Black Harbor had put very little effort into their holiday decorations. Eleanor Reynolds had more Christmas spirit in her backyard than the entire city combined.
Morgan was buzzed; she definitely shouldn’t have been driving. Which was probably why she suddenly had the courage to turn left onto Winslow Street, a road she’d avoided for as long as she could remember.
Her brakes screeched as she slowed to a stop in front of a small, slanted house. It was missing more shingles than it had left, and in the moonlight, the siding glowed bone white. A rectangular window was situated on each side of a front door that was either swung inward or gone so the house looked like it was screaming. Morgan stared at the pitch black of the doorway, paralyzed with a fear she’d all but forgotten.
She kept the car running with her foot on the brake. That way, should Aunt Bern’s ghost come hobbling down the broken steps, she’d slam her foot on the gas and peel away. Her eyes drifted, then, to the spot where Bern’s blood had soaked into the concrete. It was covered by three feet of snow.
The numerals on the mailbox were so faded they were barely legible: 604 Winslow Street. This was where it had all begun, and where it had almost ended more times than she could count. This was home, where all roads apparently led back to.
The skin on her left wrist burned. She dug her thumbnail under her cuff to scratch, and had the unsettling feeling she was playing the hot or cold game. This was where the note wanted her to go. The key opened something inside. But what? Her aunt’s bedroom? Morgan had never been allowed in. To the kitchen cabinets? Bern had kept them locked.
Suddenly, Morgan’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, where a shadow moved in behind her, a black shape blocking out the glow of the Christmas lights. It crawled to a stop.
An alarm dinged. Morgan jumped out of her skin, and when she looked down, noticed the gas pump icon glowed orange.
How long had she been sitting here?
It was time to go, anyway. Whoever had pulled up behind her wasn’t going anywhere. Maybe they lived around here. Maybe it was a cop. But a cop would have turned his lights on by now, yeah? Watching the shadow, Morgan let out a slow exhale as she lifted her foot off the brake and stepped on the gas pedal. Her nerves calmed as she reached the end of the street and nothing appeared in her rearview mirror. She glanced at her clock and—never one to fall back or spring forward for daylight savings—automatically added an hour to its time. It was 10:46. The Fast Mart was only a mile from here. She could get gas and be home by 11:00.
Morgan turned left into the lot of the Fast Mart and coasted to a stop next to the pump. She got out and slammed her door. Frowned. A handwritten sign taped to the left of the credit card insert read PRE-PAY ONLY!!!
Her breath plumed in front of her as she heaved an annoyed sigh. Of course it was prepay only. Every gas station in Black Harbor was prepay only. Too many drive-offs. People couldn’t be trusted.
She looked around. Hers was the only car here. Across the street, parked in the lot of the old furniture store, was a police SUV. She hoped he stayed over there. She really didn’t need a ticket for expired plates right now.
Hands jammed into her jacket pockets, Morgan marched inside. Snow and salt crystals crunched under her boots. Jingle bells clanged against the glass, signaling her entrance.
Shit. The cop was inside.
Her instincts told her to run. Logic, on the other hand, told her to act casual, pay for her gas, so she could fill her tank and head home. Her sugar addiction told her to check out the candy aisle.
“Hello.” The cashier smiled.
“H—” Morgan tripped, her boot catching the corner of the industrial rug. A strong hand suddenly cuffed her arm, caught her from smacking her head on the newspaper stand.
“Whoa, you all right there?” The police officer’s voice was a warm baritone.
Straightening up, Morgan nodded. Forced a smile. “Thanks.”
Something popped in his eyes then. A starburst. A camera flash. A spark of recognition, maybe? She’d never seen him before in her life and yet, he stared at her as though she was the final piece to a puzzle. Her legs felt like they might give out beneath her again as her mind grappled with the urge to flee. She ripped her arm away, perhaps a little too aggressively, and started down the aisle.
His gaze never left her, though. She’d felt the weight of people’s stares enough to know when a pair of eyes were boring into her back.
Let him watch, she told herself. He couldn’t do anything to her here. She’d taken care to exact her revenge outside his jurisdiction. And it hadn’t been revenge so much as it had been justice in its most poetic execution. She’d be more worried if she were in Chicago, but Black Harbor—this was her home turf. Unless, what was that word? Extradition?
Just be cool. She crouched in front of a row of candy bars. It had been ages since she’d bought one. She grabbed a Butterfinger and was about to stand back up when the bells clanged against the glass again. Winter rushed in as behind her and to her left, the door opened. Had the cop gone, she wondered. No. Still crouched but peering over the red wire fixtures, Morgan could see the top of his head as he stood by the coffee machine.
Then, a chemical odor ensnared her. It smelled like spray paint. Her muscles locked up. Morgan fell backward onto her butt, her boot knocking loose a row of candy bars. Peeking through a fringe of dark hair, she watched as a person’s shoes came into view. They were black, but when he took a step toward the counter, she could see that the soles were red.
“Give me the money,” the intruder demanded.
“Off—Officer Garrison,” the cashier stammered.
“Police, drop the gun!” the cop shouted.
The silence that cloaked the store was so intense, a pin dropping would have sounded like a window breaking. The hairs on the back of her neck stood at attention. She held her breath, her gaze focused on the gun in the intruder’s gloved hand.
She heard the paper cup fall to the floor. Coffee splashed. An eardrum-shattering explosion rocked the store. And another one. And three more in quick succession. Pop! Pop! Pop pop pop!
Foil bags exploded. Potato chips rained like shrapnel. In front of her, the cop’s body crashed to the tile. She heard the sound of bones snapping, a skull cracking, and then a ringing so terrible she clapped her hands over her ears and screamed as she braced herself for the bullets that never came.
The world wavered. She couldn’t tell how many seconds passed before she summoned the courage to look at the cop lying on the floor. She could see him from the shoulders up, the dark, wet patches on his uniform. A sucking wound in his neck looked like a second mouth gasping for oxygen. Blood erupted from it and bloomed on the tile.
She pulled her knees into her chest, felt the wire fixture dig into her back. Her throat was shredded, but she couldn’t hear herself, couldn’t hear anything over the ringing in her ears. The cop’s head rolled toward her. Morgan gasped, seeing that the light in his warm brown eyes had gone out. His pupils and irises were black as coal. She stared in horror, then, as his lips formed his last three words: “I found you.”