Page 2 of The Pretender

He scrambled to his feet. Right as he turned to run back through the doors to the outside a thought hit him. His mind rebelled at the thought of what he needed to do. The pure sickness of it. His gaze zipped to the doorway before he bent down and used his glove to wipe Tabitha’s mouth. To erase any signs that he’d tried to save her.

When he stood back up a sensation hit him. Self-loathing. Maybe he was a fucking asshole just as his father claimed.

Footsteps sounded on the hardwood in the hallway. “Tabitha? Enough with the online sleuthing for today. It’s beautiful outside.”

Harris couldn’t wait another second. In a soundless jog, he stepped around the body. He’d already kneeled and walked through the scene, likely made it impossible for a forensic team to discover anything of value. His only goal now was not to track blood in a path directly to him.

The handle slipped in his hand, but he finally got the door open. He’d made it outside and into the sunshine when he heard the sister’s voice again.

“Hey, who are—”

He didn’t stop or look around. Didn’t wait to explain or comfort her. He pulled off the coverings on his shoes and started running.

And then the screaming started. A high-pitched wailing that tore through him. A mix of shock and pain so raw it ripped away his defenses and slammed his body to a halt. Right there on the perfect lawn with the blue water shining all around the island, he froze. Not for long, but long enough to hear the sister’s gulping cries.

He shook his head and took off again. Ignoring the boat dock and the small beach there, he ran in the opposite direction to the rocky shoreline. To his small boat and backpack filled with supplies. He climbed over a rock ledge and down to the water’s edge.

Waves crashed in a soothing beat that clashed with the images rewinding in his mind. They would haunt him. All of this would. Tabitha. Her sister. The blood.

He skipped the boat and went right for the water. Nothing in the stolen craft would trace back to him. He’d worn gloves most of the time and wiped off everywhere he touched when he didn’t, so no fingerprints to be found. The neoprene dive suit he wore under his clothes should keep him warm enough to stand the cold temperature of the water. As he plunged into the water, splashes of red mixed with the blue. He looked down and realized blood coated his pants. Now it mixed with the Bay and slipped farther away from him with each new wave.

Trying to call up every ounce of training, he mentally walked through his steps into the main house. It took only seconds but felt like a full-length movie unspooled in his brain. Satisfied he’d covered his tracks, he turned the boat over and pushed it down until water bubbled up inside. He didn’t need to sink it, just be sure any unexpected traces and fibers disappeared.

He heard yelling. A man’s voice. It grew more faint as Harris saw a figure running for the front porch of the house from the far edge of the island. Away from Harris, not toward him. Likely the island caretaker responding to the sister’s screams.

That was all the incentive Harris needed. People were moving. Law enforcement would appear. The press—everyone. The Wright family had money. Stupid money. They would not stop until they caught the killer, and he refused to be tagged as that.

He needed to swim. To get to the smaller island nearby. From there he could call his reinforcements.

The way he got to the main island, by rowing, was too dangerous now. People would remember everything they saw the day Tabitha Wright was stabbed to death. A man rowing at breakneck speed dressed all in black and wearing gloves would stick out. No, he had to bide his time. Hide among the overgrown trees on the island two hundred feet away and let the people he trusted figure out how to extract him.

But he had to get there first, so he started swimming with his backpack. A few strokes then he dove under. The tide crashed on him, stealing his breath. He didn’t care. This was life or death. First, hers. Now his.

Even being in good shape and with the protection of the narrow strait between the two islands minimizing the waves, the tide spun him around. For every two strokes he seemed to fall back one. He forced his mind to focus and his body to pump even harder. Water filled his mouth, not as salty as the ocean but the taste lingered. His ears clogged. The advance took an eternity and his lungs burned from the effort.

Just as his arms gave out, his knee brushed against the rocky coast of the smaller island. A thwapping sounded above him. He recognized it. Helicopters.

Keeping low, he crawled up into the brush. A jagged edge shredded his pants and slit his skin but he barely felt the cut. The sound of his heavy breathing echoed around him. Branches and some plant with sharp needles jabbed into him, but he kept going.

He shimmied on his knees and elbows until he landed in the protected cover of the overhanging trees. Turning over, he stared up into the canopy of green. Patches of blue sky poked through the trees and fluffy white clouds blew by.

On any other day, under any other circumstances he would declare it a perfect day to be outside. But today was his nightmare. A job gone deadly wrong.

He closed his eyes and the haunting sound of the sister’s cries came rushing back to him. He feared the noise would always fill his brain, as would the guilt of not being able to do enough for Tabitha, a woman he didn’t actually know.

Exhaustion tugged at him. He could feel his muscles crying out for rest. For a bed. For quiet. For any place that was not here.

He turned onto his side and forced his body up on one elbow. His joints groaned in protest. At thirty-four that never happened, but he didn’t have any energy left. The adrenaline surge that got him across that water had all but vanished. Now he lay there in the shade, wet and with cooling skin.

He pushed up to his knee and his body buckled. He couldn’t put any weight on his left side. Even through the dark, soaked clothes he saw a fresh spurt of blood. It stained the ground where he’d just kneeled. He used his gloved palm to cover the red blotch with dirt.

Pushing the whole way up, he hobbled on one leg. Half bounced and half dragged his body over to the nearest tree trunk and tried to get his bearings. He’d staked out Tabitha Island from here and left backup supplies. His Plan B. Random items without any identifying marks. The most important being a satellite phone. The ultimate emergency safeguard that he had planned to double back and pick up when he finished the job.

So much for thinking today’s work would be fast and easy.

It took another five minutes to get to his hiding place. A helicopter had landed on the island and boats were circling, some filled with tourists looking to see what was happening and others in transit to likely lock the place down.

He reached for the duffle bag and ripped the zipper open. He still wore the gloves. They were molded to his hands now and stiff. He dialed one of the few numbers he ever called. If the sat phone was the backup plan, this phone number qualified as the end-of-the-world measure he never wanted to invoke.

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