Ismay Chalmers had never faced such terrible weather. A farmer’s daughter, born and raised in a small town in northern Utah, she’d seen the occasional blizzard during winter, a twenty-year drought, and scars left by wildfires once. But she’d never experienced anything even close to a hurricane. “I can’t believe this is happening,” she told Remy Windsor, her fiancé, over the phone.
“You have nothing to worry about,” he said, but his words sounded hollow. She was alone on an island off Cape Cod that was only ten miles long and five miles wide, facing shrieking gale-force winds that seemed determined to claw the house apart, and dark roiling clouds that blocked out the sun so completely it could’ve been nighttime instead of midafternoon.
“Easy for you to say. You’re sitting in sunny LA,” she grumbled. Just imagining the balmy spring weather he was experiencing made her wish she’d stayed in California. She would’ve waited for him, but after passing the bar, there’d been nothing for her to do while he continued to study almost 24/7 for the third and final part of the United States Medical Licensing Exam, which would enable him to become a medical doctor.
Instead, she’d flown to Mariners Island ahead of him to get settled while he finished up. He was supposed to join her in three weeks. Then they’d spend the rest of May and all of June in paradise, unwinding from the pressure they’d been under, both before they knew each other and after—obtaining their bachelor’s degrees at UCLA, passing the exams necessary to get into higher education at the same school, and earning their advanced degrees.
“The storm won’t be as bad as it seems,” he insisted. “Like Martha’s Vineyard and Nantucket, Mariners is an outlier that gets far more nor’easters than hurricanes. Those can be bad enough, of course, but they only come in the winter. And hurricane season doesn’t start until August.”
When the wind had first come up, she’d checked the internet. She knew what he said was accurate. But there were always exceptions.
“Hurricanes almost always slam into the coast farther south,” he continued as she moved to the living room window to be able to watch what was happening outside. “They lessen in severity before moving north, or they curve into the Atlantic.”
Feeling the house shudder around her did nothing to build her confidence. Windsor Cottage—a play on Windsor Castle using his family’s last name—was located at the end of a lane called “Land’s End,” because it was on the easternmost tip of the island.
When a jagged bolt of lightning electrified the sky, she could see the angry froth of the sea churning not far away—watched a giant wave rise up and come crashing down on the beach. “It’s hard to feel safe when I’m afraid the house will blow down and be swept into the ocean,” she said.
“The house won’t blow down and be swept into the ocean,” he said with a chuckle. “It’s been in the family for almost a century. Everything will be fine.”
Maybe he was right, and she was overreacting. That wouldn’t be too surprising, considering she was staying in an unfamiliar house in a part of the world she’d never visited before. “I just wish I’d waited for you. I don’t know what I was thinking flying off ahead of you.”
“You were thinking of spending your days on the beach, reading escape novels and getting a tan. You’ve worked so hard. You deserve to celebrate with a sun-drenched vacation on Mariners. That’s why my parents insisted we use the cottage.”
The word cottage was an understatement. Summer home would be a more accurate term. The house was worth millions. But she wasn’t going to argue over semantics. She’d grown up with seven younger siblings and tired parents who worked from dawn till dusk to provide everything they could for their family, but she’d never known the type of affluence Remy had. His father was a diamond broker in New York City—like his father before him—and thanks to his incredible success, Remy’s mother had never had to work. “I just feel so...alone and vulnerable.”
“Stop. You’ll wake up in the morning, the sun will be shining, and you’ll be glad you went ahead of me. You passed the bar in February. You’ve had to sit around twiddling your thumbs enough while I study.”
He was right about that. She’d cracked open her share of textbooks, but she hadn’t had to study nearly as hard as he had, and the fact that he was never available was getting old. She was becoming concerned about their relationship. When they met nearly three years ago, she’d been so impressed by his drive and ability, how he always had everything under control. They’d moved in together a year later and gotten engaged, informally for now, nine months ago. But she no longer felt like a priority. Maybe marriage would be a mistake. She’d recently told him she was having a few misgivings, and he’d said things would change once they had their hardest years behind them.
She’d decided to wait and see, when he wasn’t so stressed.
“I’ll be there before you know it,” he promised.
Enough whimpering about the storm, she told herself. He didn’t have much patience for weakness—much patience at all, now that she thought of it. She was about to change the subject and ask how confident he was feeling about part three, his upcoming exam, when the lights flickered. “I think I’m going to lose power,” she said instead, feeling a fresh burst of panic.
“I’m sure my folks have candles and flashlights and that sort of thing.”
“Where?” she asked, suddenly desperate to find them.
“I’ll call and ask.”
How long would that take? She drew a deep breath. “Okay. Hurry.”
As soon as she disconnected, she started rummaging through the cupboards and drawers in the kitchen, thinking she might stumble on what she needed. To prepare for a hurricane—or a bad storm like this—the information online indicated she should have a gallon of water, food, a flashlight, a battery-powered radio, a first-aid kit, extra batteries, and a whistle to use to be able to call for help—although, hopefully, it wouldn’t get that bad. The list was even more extensive than that, but she figured she’d be happy if she could just gain possession of the top three items.
Fortunately, she’d purchased groceries once she’d landed and bought filtered water.
After she left the kitchen, she managed to locate a flashlight in the mudroom at the back of the house.
Relieved, she turned it on, then groaned. The beam was so weak. It needed new batteries. She was also worried about the battery in her cell phone. She’d been charging it since before the storm started, but it ran down quickly—in a couple of hours. She’d been meaning to do something about that, but she’d been living on student loans and a modest paycheck from the coffee shop where she worked and would need every cent she could scrape together to set up her law practice this summer. She could’ve joined a firm instead, but she’d chosen to go out on her own so she wouldn’t be beholden to the demands—or whims—of those more powerful than she was and could retain control of her own destiny.
She still considered that a good decision. But putting off getting her phone fixed? Not so much. It didn’t matter a great deal in LA. There, she was almost always near a working outlet. But what if that wasn’t the case here? What if she lost power and it took all night or longer to restore it?
She’d be completely cut off. With everyone having a cell phone these days, Remy’s parents had seen no reason to keep a landline when they had the house renovated last fall.
“Shit.” After returning to the kitchen, where she’d left her phone, she tapped her fingers on the counter, willing Remy to call back. But he’d been so cavalier and unconcerned, so sure everything would be fine, she wasn’t convinced he’d act quickly.
A large boom sounded. She had no idea what it was. It sounded more like something had crashed into the house than thunder. But it convinced her she’d be a fool to waste any more time waiting for him.
Taking only the small flashlight she’d found, she left her charging phone behind to poke through the other rooms.
Surely, she’d find a bevy of stronger flashlights. The house was built on an island, for God’s sake. The only way to reach Mariners was by boat or plane, and bad weather routinely cut it off from the mainland. But no one had spent much time at the cottage since it was gutted and remodeled, so a lot of everyday items hadn’t yet been replaced.
The lights went out before she could reach the second story. She was only halfway up the stairs when it happened, leaving her in a thick humid darkness that felt like plasma. As she listened to the wind howl through the eaves and the house creak in protest, she realized she was going to have to go ahead and use the weak flashlight.
“What a nightmare,” she muttered and hit the switch.
A dim yellow circle illuminated the next step and then the next. The beam couldn’t reach far, which made her nervous. She needed to decide where she’d spend her time until the power came back on, because if she couldn’t find another source of light, she wouldn’t be able to move about in this unfamiliar place. It wasn’t as if she could rely on her phone as a flashlight. She might need what cell power she had for more important things.
Chances were she’d just have to wait out the storm in the dark, hoping the power came back on sooner than later—or that the skies would clear enough by tomorrow morning that she’d be able to see the sun.
Once she reached the landing, she sought out the bathrooms. She was relieved to find several decorative, scented candles by the soaking tub in the master bedroom, but there weren’t any matches. Hoping she might run across a lighter in one of the boys’ rooms, she brought two candles with her and left them near the wall at the top of the stairs before going into the first door off the hallway.
Although this room had been updated, like the rest of the house, there was a graduation picture of Remy on the dresser from when he got his bachelor’s, along with some old baseball and soccer trophies. Remy had insisted she take the master—might as well be as comfortable as possible, Is. We can always switch rooms if my parents make it out to visit us—so she wasn’t staying in his old room, but she knew this had belonged to him. She’d seen it yesterday when she first arrived and explored the house.
She searched his drawers but most were empty, since the furniture was new. She did find several boxes in the closet filled with old clothes and memorabilia and guessed his mother had asked the workmen to put his belongings there for him to sort through the next time he returned to the island.
After digging through clothes, old schoolwork, and things he’d made as a child, she lost confidence she’d find what she needed in those boxes and started to feel along the top shelf of his closet. Could he have hidden a bong or some marijuana with a lighter? He smoked on occasion, and once told her he’d started young.
Although the closet would be the most likely place to find that type of thing, she couldn’t reach all the way to the back, so she climbed up on one of the heaviest boxes and used her flashlight to see.
There was no bong. No lighter or matches, either. She found a ballpoint pen, a random bookmark, and a spiral binder with Remy’s name drawn on the cover in colorful graffiti-like letters and pages filled with incredible drawings.
She’d known Remy was talented. He’d done a number of sketches—including a picture of her dog before she had to put him down three months ago—and quite a few human bodies, showing the detailed anatomy of the organs, muscles, and ligaments. He said it was a great way for him to study, and she could see why that might be the case.
But the drawings in this book weren’t quite so clinical. These depicted violence—knives dripping with blood, torture devices, and mutilated bodies.
With a grimace, she closed the binder and put it back. She couldn’t understand why Remy or anyone else would have the desire to draw such things. But a lot of teenage boys were fascinated with the macabre. Even though she found those graphic images unsettling—disturbing—especially while her flashlight was fading and she was likely to be left in the dark, stranded alone in this “cottage” by the sea, she shouldn’t make too much of it.
Coming to this place had seemed like such a treat before the storm rolled in, she mused. But right now, she’d rather be in the cramped, kitschy, well-loved four-bedroom farmhouse where she’d grown up, even if all her siblings were home and arguing over religion and politics, as they often did.
She was about to scramble down and move on to Remy’s twin brother’s room when a loose board along the back of the shelves caught her eye. There it is. That had to be where he’d hidden his marijuana, she thought.
Lifting the loose board revealed a hole in the wall that contained a small nylon duffel bag, the kind an athlete would use to carry their equipment. She reached for it, then hesitated. She was already a little shaken by what she’d seen in that notebook. Should she really press on? This wasn’t her house. She had no right to invade Remy’s privacy. After all, she’d just seen a part of her fiancé—even if it was from when he was much younger—that she didn’t find appealing. And they didn’t need any more strain on their relationship.
But if this was indeed a bong, and there were matches or a lighter with it, she’d have candles and a way to use them.
She wasn’t doing anything wrong, she reassured herself, and got down so she could use both hands.
After unzipping the duffel, she pointed her flashlight inside it. But she didn’t find what she’d expected. The bag contained several pieces of cheap jewelry, a torn picture of some girl who looked to be eighteen or nineteen, and a handful of women’s underwear.
She picked up a pair of yellow bikini briefs—and quickly dropped them again. Why would Remy have a bag of women’s jewelry and panties hidden so carefully in his closet?
Her mind raced and her heart began to pound. Like the drawings, the contents of the duffel could fall within the range of what was normal for a young boy to have, couldn’t it? Young boys were, of course, notoriously curious about women.
But what she’d found didn’t feel normal. That was the problem. Whose panties were they? Where had they come from? And how long had they been there?
Whatever the answers to those questions, she wished she’d never found the notebook or the bag. She’d lived with Remy for two of the three years they’d been together, but this made her wonder if she really knew him. He was so...highly focused on school, on himself. He didn’t open up a lot. What was going on inside his head?
These items made her wonder like she’d never wondered before.
Intending to get back up on the boxes so she could put the bag away, she turned, but her flashlight died at that moment, leaving her standing in Remy’s old room, blinking widely without being able to see a thing—except those horrific drawings and the yellow bikini briefs in the duffel she was holding, both of which were indelibly etched into her brain.