Page 51 of Hide Me Darling

Gladys places a gentle hand on mine to pass the grocery bags, startling me from my thoughts. "Fate is a funny thing," she continues softly. "You'll find those you need in your life when you least expect it, or perhaps they'll find you."

I nod slowly, gratefully. "That's a happy thought. Thank you, Gladys."

"You're welcome, dear.” The way her eyes bring me comfort is almost like a parent looking out for their child. It’s adorable and so sweet.

As I leave the store, Gladys' words linger in my mind. Her belief in fate and the idea that everyone has their place and a person meant for them is comforting, yet I can't shake my own doubts.

Deciding to take a walk along the beach on my way back home, I cross the road finding myself closer to the carnival. It's a hive of activity as workers finish setting things up, large signs across the main gates signaling that it's not yet open to the public. Turning away from the bustling scene, I head towards the soothing expanse of sand.

The salty tang of the ocean and the warmth of the sun are almost like heaven as I stroll along. Passing by the row of artfully painted surfboards, I notice Chester stepping out of his studio, adding another board to the rack. His hair falls casually to his shoulders, and the tattoo of a bird on his back ripples with his movements, looking almost like it’s about to fly off his skin. His grin is infectious as he spots me.

"Hey Taylor, how are you?" he calls out warmly.

"Hey Chester," I reply, stepping closer to where he stands by the surfboards with my groceries in hand. "I'm good, thanks. How's your painting going?"

His grin widens as he turns fully to face me, his eyes dipping to my throat and flaring for a moment before he answers. "It's going great," he says enthusiastically. "I've had a lot of new inspiration lately. Been experimenting with some different techniques and themes."

"That sounds exciting," I comment, genuinely intrigued by his artistic passion. "I'd love to see some of your new work sometime."

Chester's eyes light up at my interest, and he leans casually against the surfboard rack, his gaze lingering on me thoughtfully. "I'd be thrilled to show you, love," he says, his voice carrying a hint of flirtation as his English accent thickens. "Maybe a private showing, when you're ready."

His use of the endearment catches me off guard, and my stomach dips. Chester's charm is undeniable, and his casual confidence adds an intriguing allure to his artistic persona.

"Private showing, huh?" I reply with a teasing smile, trying to match his playful tone. "That sounds like a special invitation. I might have to take you up on that."

Chester chuckles softly, his eyes turning intense. "I look forward to it," he replies smoothly, his voice dropping slightly. "Besides, I have a feeling you appreciate art in more ways than one, love."

If I hadn’t already been warned about him by Allegra and Maddie, I may have fallen for his charm. It seems to come effortlessly to him as if his flirtatiousness were a part of him, like a second skin. But I keep my thoughts to myself in the hopes I can gain more insight into him.

"I... I guess we'll see," I finally manage to respond, hoisting my groceries on my hip.

Chester's gaze holds mine for a moment longer, his smile lingering as if he's savoring the exchange. "Indeed we will," he says, his tone a blend of amusement and intrigue. With a nod and a casual wave, he returns to his studio.

As I continue my walk along the beach, the rhythmic crash of waves helps steady my thoughts. This is my fourth day here and I still feel no closer to solving this mystery. Any one of the suspects could have interacted with the tourists at some point. I need more clues, more details to go on.

I stop by the cafe and grab a seafood salad to-go to eat back at the house. Lily gives me a large smile and an extra large serving despite my protests. She insists I need the extra portion and ushers me back out with a playful wink.

With salad and groceries in hand, I continue my walk home, enjoying the ocean breeze as my mind tries to make sense of my investigation. Nothing is adding up to me, and I can’t connect the dots. The suspects, the clues—or lack thereof—everything seems to be at a standstill, leaving me frustrated.

The old man that lives down the road from the house waves to me on my way past and I smile and return the gesture. Arriving back home, I’m grateful to find nothing waiting on the doorstep today.

I head straight to the kitchen, placing the groceries on the counter. The sunlight filters through the window, casting a warm glow over everything. The now familiar noises of the old walls and floors are almost comforting.

With a sigh, I toss out the old coffee, replacing it with the new batch I picked up from the store. Despite Jonah’s recommendation, I opt for a glass of water instead. Grabbing my seafood salad from Lily's cafe and the glass, I head to my office, eager to delve into the new information I've gathered today.

Placing the salad down on the desk, I turn as I take a sip of the water. The coolness of it soothes my parched throat.

As I turn towards the wall in my office, the glass slips from my fingers and my heart skips a beat as it shatters on the floor at my feet. There, among my meticulously arranged notes and printouts, are photographs. Photographs that were not there before. Each one is pinned next to different blog posts, each showing a different girl.

My hands tremble slightly as I edge closer, trying to make sense of this unsettling vision. The photos seem strategically placed, as if deliberately telling me a story. Each girl's face stares back at me, their images stark against the white paper printouts.

My breath catches in my throat as I move, my mind racing to comprehend what I'm seeing. I reach out to touch one of the photos, my fingers hovering over the image of a blonde girl smiling toward the camera. She looks carefree, unaware of being photographed. The realization hits me with a wave of unease—these are the dead tourists.

Up until now, I had hoped that the rumors of the dead tourists were just a cruel fabrication by the bloggers, a twisted lure to draw me—or any woman—into some bizarre game. But seeing these photos, the stark reality hits me like a punch to the gut. These are real people, real victims. My investigation just took a horrifying turn.

I force myself to take a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves. I know I need to clean up the spilled water and glass but instead I pull out my phone, intending to capture this new information first.

Instantly I notice there is a message waiting on my there; reading it has my heart racing in my chest.

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