Page 26 of Fated

He’s striding across the lawn now. He moves with purpose, his shoulders straight, arms loose, as if he’s used to walking on a wildly rolling boat and he could balance on anything. He has that gliding grace you sometimes see in athletes or men who love to sail.

He took the time to dress. He’s in shorts, a faded gray T-shirt, and running shoes. His hair is combed, no longer sleep-mussed. He still has stubble, though, and a sleepy morning look.

But I’m not fooled. There’s focus in his eyes and in his gait. He’s coming for me.

“A phone,” I say again. Then, desperately, “Fifty thousand dollars.”

“What are you on about?” Maranda says, looking between me and the man. “You know there aren’t any phones on island.”

I jerk my gaze back to her. A shock jolts through me.

“What?”

I’m on an island. And there aren’t any phones.

“That’s not true,” Essie says. “Jordi has that sat phone at the shop.”

“Where’s the shop?” I ask, clenching my hands and digging my feet into the cool, shaded sand.

Dee gives me a funny look, shaking her salt-and-pepper hair. Then she points past the houses, past the flowering bushes, to a small, bumpy gray road half-sand, half-paved gravel.

The man is only ten feet away.

“Stall him. Don’t let him follow me.”

I can feel his nearness. I can feel him like the sun beating down on me and the sound of the waves crashing over me. I can feel him in me and over me.

I take off at a sprint.

11

The graveland the broken concrete bite into my feet as I sprint down the road. My white dress flaps behind me like the wings of a seagull. Sweat beads over my forehead and runs down my face. The air, fresher near the ocean, grows even more thick and soupy as I sprint down the road, further inland, toward the green, jewellike mangrove forest and teeming wetlands.

Dozens of snow-white egrets perch on long, spindly legs in the shallow blue-brown waters lapping over the dense forest of tube-like red mangroves. The egrets turn their long necks, their feathers ruffling as I sprint past them. The mangroves rise out of the water like gnarled old men standing on stilts, their branches and leaves threading together so that one tree becomes another.

As my shadow flicks over a mangrove’s tube, a fist-sized crab scuttles down the wood and dives into the water with a quiet plunk. Just as quickly, the egret nearby spears the water lightning-quick, snatches the crab, and tosses it down its long yellow bill.

I keep running. The heady, spice-like, musty scent of the mangroves stings my eyes, similar to a mosquito buzzing in my ear. In the distance the shrill whistling noise I heard in the cottage sounds again, and a V formation of brown ducks flies overhead.

I’m a quarter-mile inland, past the small cluster of rainbow-colored beach cottages. Two hundred meters ahead the mangroves open up and lead to another beachy clearing.

There’s a white gazebo on the beach, three picnic tables, and a concrete shower stand with an outdoor shower and a toilet. Under a tree there’s a tree swing. I almost stumble on the road, now mostly gravel and sand, because that tree swing looks almost identical to the one I swing on over Lake Geneva.

I can almost hear Mila’s laugh and Daniel calling me to come for a swim.

My chest clenches. I hope they aren’t too scared. I pray they’re okay. As soon as Daniel knows I’m missing he’ll come for Mila. He’ll take care of her.

Ahead there’s a man standing in the road.

He’s tall, spindly like the egrets, with skin dark from the sun. He’s in a fluorescent orange vest and is wearing crisp black cotton trousers, a white button-down short-sleeve shirt, and a black hat with a short brim.

When he sees me approaching he leans down, picks up the large octagonal sign next to the metal folding chair he’s positioned under the shade of a tall palm, and moves quickly to the middle of the road.

I slow, and then the man holds up the sign, turning it to face me.

It’s a stop sign.

Up close he has a broad forehead, thick eyebrows, a bushy black mustache, and sweat running down his face in branching rivulets. He also has the firm-jawed, tight-backed look of an officer.

---