“Find out who did it,” said Angelina.
Shee nodded.
“I will.”
&&&
Chapter Sixteen
Shee?
Mick called out, but something felt wrong. The shadowy figures around him didn’t respond, didn’t look, no matter how loudly he yelled.
Can’t they hear me?
He tried breathing harder. He could hear the sound of his own panting, feel the breath in his nostrils.
The shadows moved in.
They could hear him breathing.
Maybe Shee can, too?
He had to warn her. He had to—
I’m asleep.
Awareness melted over his brain like chocolate syrup oozing across a sundae.
Syrup. Never hot fudge. Shee doesn’t like hot fudge.
Bits of the room appeared before him, seen through a slit, as if he were peering through blinds. He knew then he was asleep, but trapped in a dream, unable to wake, his lids too heavy to lift.
Is Shee here? I have to wake up.
How many days had it been? He’d lost count. He’d tried to clock how many times light turned to darkness, but he didn’t know when he’d started or if days passed without him knowing.
Shee had to be a dream. One of the better ones. Sometimes he dreamt about his time as a SEAL, fighting enemies, talking to his men. Sometimes he saw faces. Dead friends. Pets he’d had as boy. Old classmates. Shee’s mother. Sometimes he talked to them, fought them, loved them. Other times he felt helpless, his limbs frozen. Trapped.
There was one constant. The Shadow. Cloaked in the smell of cinnamon and something else, something earthy. It spoke to him, told him he would be trapped for his sins. Asked where Shee was.
It wanted Shee.
No.
It had to be a nightmare. He’d made it safe for Shee to come home. But she hadn’t. Did she know it was too dangerous?
How did she know?
She’s always been smarter than me.
Still breathing hard, the darkness collapsed around him.
The scent of cinnamon filled the air.
It’s back.
Two heads this time. One dark, one light. Two voices. Mocking him.
I won’t die like this.
Mick threw a punch. Struck out again. His fists connected like pillows, puffs of air.
Are my arms even moving?
He heard a crash.
Glass?
Someone swore.
Did my knuckle hit something?
He tried to swing again, but nothing happened.
Hands fell on him, dragging him under. The fog rolled in. The world grew darker still.
Maybe I’m a ghost.
Maybe this is hell.
It feels like hell.
&&&
Chapter Seventeen
Shee sat up in bed.
What was that?
Pain shot through her shoulder and she hugged herself, squinting into the darkness.
My body is killing me.
Something had woken her.
Pain?
She frowned. No. A sound.
Some kind of animal?
She sat still, cradling her aching arms, in a silence so deep she could hear it reverberating in her ears. She didn’t work well with sound. Silence was even worse. She needed to see things to process them.
She tried to see what she’d heard.
A feeling of beige came over her. The lighter shade meant a lighter sound, higher, less bass.
Sharp.
Not a bark. Maybe a sharp shriek, like a fox?
Like glass breaking?
Slipping out of bed, Shee padded to the window on bare feet, happy to find the warm hardwood floors beneath her toes after spending the last few months in New England. She peered through the room’s only window. She hadn’t lowered the blinds, though, maybe she should have—she’d heard the area was rife with drones.
Her gaze bounced from one point of light to the next. A string of party lights, someone’s glowing window, a porch lamp on the opposite bank of the ICW. Pressing her cheek against the window she spied a green light glowing like the beacon at the end of Daisy’s dock.
How Gatsby. Does it represent my hopes and dreams? Everything I want, glowing up river, too far to reach?
Real-life metaphors were never that simple.
In the distance she heard a train whistle and snorted a laugh.
There’s a better metaphor for my life. A train wreck.
Shee heard another sound. This one was low. More like a moan.
Had the sound come from inside the Inn?
Shee spun on the ball of her foot and moved to the door.
Even my hips hurt.
The hinges on her door whined, floorboards creaking beneath her weight as she moved into the hall. She cringed. She hated making noise. Noise never did anything for anyone in her line of work—whatever that was. She wasn’t sure unlicensed detective-slash-bounty hunter-slash-skip-tracer was a line of work per se, but crashing around making noise didn’t help in any case.
She froze again to listen.
Nothing.
Continuing down the hall, she reached her father’s door and tried the knob.
Locked.
She recalled the key around Angelina’s neck.
I’m going to need a copy of that.
She raised her hand to knock and then rolled her eyes.
Sure. That’s all he needs—someone to knock on his door. Then he’d just pop out of bed and answer, coma cured.
What about Martisha? Where does she sleep?
She glanced to the opposite end of the hall.
Another door. Probably there.
They probably had monitors on him. They’d need to keep watch on his BP and—
She shook her head.
Now she was an unlicensed detective-slash-bounty-hunter-slash-skip-tracer-slash-doctor.
If I’m going to be unlicensed, I might as well be unlicensed at everything.
Shee pressed her ear against the door and listened, hearing only the steady thrum of what she guessed was her father’s refrigerator. She returned to her room and crawled back into bed.
Different place. Different noises.
Maybe the moan had come from outside. She could ask Angelina. She probably knew all the local sounds.
Did Croix live in the hotel, too?
Are there any rooms left for guests?
In the hall, a
