Page 20 of Fire Island
I have to.
I have to.
I have to do this.
With a raw scream, I push to my feet, swiping the wrench from the floor. Waiting until her back is turned, her light penetrating deep into the Atlantic, I rush her from behind. I slam the bulky, destructive head of the tool into the planes of glass that make up her crown. It cracks but doesn’t shatter.
She swings around, as if turning back to face her opponent.
I duck my head, shielding my eyes. And when she is careless enough to show me her back again, I smash down hard. Glass splinters, showering across the wooden floor.
I swing again, the heady craze of something manic taking over. I bring the wrench down, over and over, into the heart of her shining body.
The tinkle of raining glass exploding under the weight of my attack fills the air.
The light flickers as I reach her heart and destroy it in one final, deadly swing. The long, bright beam dies, fluttering out like the desperate wings of a butterfly taking its last breaths.
Fitting.
As the coastline fades into darkness, I stand, the metal handle hanging between my fingers. Tears pouring over my cheeks. Blood thundering through my head. Breaths burning through my too-small lungs.
The queen is dead.
The heart and soul of Fire Island is obliterated.
Now, I wait.
The smallest sliver of hope is coaxed to life as the gravity of what I’ve done settles in.
Glass shards and chunks of lamp cover most of the floor. I shove as much as I can to the side with the wrench. I make a clean path to the cupboard and pluck out a brush and sweep the glass in a pile to one side. Kneeling by the remnants of what I’ve done, I bow my head.
A gesture of sadness. My sorrow over losing the last piece of Cal. The fraction of hope I cling to like my life preserver with her gone. And she absolutely is.
Timothy may not frighten me like he used to, but he is still in control. And I have no idea how to take that back without a fight.
One I’m not sure I’d be able to win.
“Sorry, Cal,” I whisper to the pile of glass, contemplating what I’ve done, and what I might still have to do. As if Callum can hear me, the wind whips through the lantern room, tugging at my clothes, sweeping over my wet cheeks, and drying my tears.
“Get up!” Bony fingers sink like vicious talons around my upper arm, ripping me from sleep and up off the floor. “You did this!”
I scramble to my feet, shoving my glasses up my nose. “Get your hands off me!” I try to pull away from his hold, but he’s stronger than he looks. He shakes me, his face so close his breath hits my cheek. I lean away.
The door is open. He drags me toward the stairs, not looking back. I glance over my shoulder at the wrench on the floor thathad been inches from my fingers. The one now out of reach. The morning sunlight washes the small room in its golden glow. But it disappears as I stumble down the stairwell, dragged behind the hysterical man in front of me.
“You have no idea what you’ve done.” Timothy shakes his head. “Now we have to move on. We were supposed to have time. This is all your fault. Why do you keep screwing things up?” He stops on the tread below me, looking up, his jaw clenched, anger lining his pale eyes.
From this vantage point, I could lash out. Knock him backward down the stairs. I brace against the railing and?—
“Stupid bitch.” He drags me downward, and it takes all I have to not topple down the metal stairs myself. My feet wobble under shaky legs as I descend. The cuffs binding me press into my skin, scraping along the knobby bone of my wrist. We reach the living room, and I stall out just past the last tread, taking in the trashed home.
I saw it last time he dragged me through here. Now, with the lamp destroyed, it feels as if Timothy is right—this is all my fault.
With a firm grip still on the chain between my hands, Timothy crosses the living room, grabbing a backpack and a few items.
It’s then I hear the hum of a boat.
A big boat.
