Page 67 of Black Heart

At some point, the cold morning gives way to a sunny afternoon. The salty tang of the ocean breeze clashes with the earthy scent of soil and pine. The cries of seagulls carry into the coast, mingling with the whir of my drill.

A fevered urgency to my work propels me forward, my body moving with trained precision despite the ache that begins to creep into my limbs. I ignore it, pushing myself to finish before nightfall.

As I finish installing the last camera, I glance back at the cottage, envisioning Layla inside, her soft blond hair falling around her face, those contrary eyes of hers—one as bright as the future I once had, the other as dark as the one I’ve chosen. Ican almost hear her quiet sigh as she traces my scar with her slender fingers, her lips parted in pure fascination.

I shake my head, dispelling the image that burns too vividly against the backdrop of the darkening forest. The deep moan of a foghorn rolls in from the sea, bringing with it a wave of isolation that mirrors my emptiness within.

“I don’t want you, Layla,” I murmur to nobody but myself, recalling the harsh words I’d thrown at her during our heated argument.

Each syllable was a lie. Lies formed from a need for self-preservation that came easier than admitting the truth—that every time I look at her, I see what I’m not. A beacon of hope, an undeniable spark of life that hovers above the ashes of my desolate world.

The connection between us is growing, and I can’t allow it to go any further. The distraction is too much. Too sweet.

You are just a means to an end, Layla.

Those words resonate in my head like a distorted carousel ride.

Leaping off the final tree, I make my way back toward the house. My feet crunch on the gravel pathway leading up to her front door. Beyond it, I hear snippets of Layla’s voice carrying through.

“No, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Layla says, her voice strained. “I understand it’s important, but I can’t?—”

She falls silent, listening. I can practically hear the gears turning in her head.

“Yes, I know it’s crucial for the company, Mr. Dawson,” she continues, a note of resignation creeping into her voice. “But surely someone else can handle it? I’ve documented everything thoroughly.”

She’s on a work call, trying to assert herself, trying topierce through her own cloud of isolation. By now, I’m aware that giving up isn’t in her nature.

“I appreciate the opportunity, but given my current situation...” She takes a deep breath. “No, I’m not asking for special treatment. I just need you to understand that I can’t be there in person.”

Her fingers drum against her thigh as she listens, her frustration palpable. I pause at the threshold, listening to her steady voice and the measured way she speaks, even when she’s frustrated. It’s a stubbornness that keeps her pushing forward despite the hazards.

Through the mudroom, I catch sight of Layla pacing back and forth in front of her couch. She throws a hand up in exasperation, almost knocking over a lampshade that casts long shadows on the floorboards.

“Did you just ask me on a date?” she asks into the phone.

I want to rip that man apart.

Layla says, her voice ice cold, “My personal life is not up for discussion. Now, about the remote access?—”

She’s cut off again, and I can see the tension in her jaw as she clenches her teeth.

“Fine,” she says finally, defeat evident in her tone. “Goodbye, Mr. Dawson.”

Layla ends the call and tosses her phone onto the couch.

An acrid taste swirls in my mouth as rage bubbles, at the thought of her so-called supervisor.

I’ve read up on him—Emmett Dawson—and I don’t like what I’ve found. He’s not just a sleazy boss who can’t keep his hands off Layla; he’s also deep in the pockets of Morelli.

Swallowing down the rancor, I step over the threshold. Layla spins around at the deliberate creak of the floorboard under my shoe. Her gaze narrows, her plush mouth settlinginto a thin line. With her hands on her hips, she takes me in from head-to-toe, noting the sweat glistening on my brow.

“You’re back,” she says.

“Yes.”

“Is everything … secure?” she asks, not entirely meeting my stare.

“As secure as it can be,” I reply.

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