Chapter 6

The shoe belonged with the champagne and evening gowns on Cole's yacht.

It didn't belong beneath the roots of a dead mangrove.

The red sole was scuffed by sand, the leather warped by salt water.

By noon, the wind was gone.

Sunlight reflected off the pale limestone until there was nowhere comfortable to look.

The heat baked the moisture out of the air and my skin.

Every breath felt dry in my lungs.

I hadn't had a drink since before Cole announced his engagement.

My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth, and every decision took longer than it should have.

Three days was not a promise.

It was how long Cole expected the island to do his work for him.

I found a thick, curved piece of driftwood to use as a crutch and pushed myself up.

The makeshift silk bandage around my knee held, but the muscles in my thigh burned with every step.

I limped away from the shore, forcing my way through the thorny scrub brush toward the center of the island.

The dry branches snagged my sweater and scraped my wrists, but I kept moving inland, desperate to get out of the direct, punishing sun.

The ground sloped upward, leading to a cluster of weathered boulders.

Behind a tangle of sea grapes, the rock face hollowed out into a shallow overhang.

It offered deep, cool shade.

The air inside smelled like old ash and dry earth.

I stepped into the shadows and lowered myself to the rocky floor, leaning my head back against the stone.

As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, the shapes along the back wall came into focus.

A rusted iron ring had been fixed into the limestone.

A short length of chain still hung from it, the metal flaking and orange with decay.

Empty food tins lay scattered near a blackened patch of stone.

Above them, someone had scratched groups of tally marks into the wall.

I leaned forward and ran my fingers over the shallow grooves.

Four groups of five.

Twenty days.

I shifted my weight, and my hand brushed against something buried in the loose dirt.

I dug my fingers in and pulled it free.

It was a heavy silver lighter, tarnished and caked with grime.

I rubbed the flat casing with my thumb to clear the dirt.

The name HAWTHORNE was engraved across the lid.

Cole hadn't chosen a random island.

This was where the Hawthornes kept people they wanted out of sight.

I put the lighter in my pocket and backed out of the overhang, putting distance between myself and the chain.

The sun finally dipped below the horizon, turning the ocean dark.

I was sitting near the edge of the scrub, resting my bad leg and watching the tide, when the sound drifted over the crashing waves.

The low, steady hum of an outboard motor.

I grabbed my driftwood crutch and pulled myself up.

Through the gaps in the brush, I saw a gray inflatable tender cutting through the surf.

It was heading straight for the white silk flag I had tied to the mangrove tree.

For one second, I stepped out of the brush.

I thought Cole had come back.

The tender hit the rocky shoreline.

Two men stepped out into the knee-deep water.

One man drew a pistol and kept it low beside his leg.

The other moved toward my white flag.

I lowered myself behind a cluster of palmettos.

The men split at the edge of the beach.

One headed toward the tree.

The other disappeared into the brush to my left.

I could still see the first man.

I had lost the second.

"Check the tree," the man on the beach said, his voice carrying clearly in the quiet evening air. "Find her. Mr. Hawthorne wants the picture before sunrise."

I took a slow, blind step backward, trying to retreat into the dense shadows of the palmettos.

My heel came down on a dry palm frond.

The wood snapped with a sharp crack.

The man on the beach snapped his head toward the sound, raising his weapon.

I turned to run, my bad leg giving out beneath me.

Before I hit the ground, a hand closed over my shoulder.

I had backed right into the second man.

He jerked me upright.

The muzzle pressed against the base of my skull.

"Turn around, nurse," the man said. "Mr. Hawthorne wants proof."