Page 2 of Moonlit Hideaway
She had to get the words out before she broke down. “In case anything happens to me, know that I love you.”
“Love you, too, sweetie. Call or text when you’re back at your apartment. I’ll make an excuse for why you’re missing. The canapés didn’t taste fresh.”
Sierra hated to hang up, but she couldn’t let her mother suspect her thoughts, so she gave her an auditory kiss and said goodnight.
She continued down the tiny road and came to a gas station. An old pickup with a “For Sale” sign and a rifle rack in the back window was parked at the corner.
As she pulled into the station, a grizzled old man nodded at her and pointed to the “Closed” light he had just switched on.
She jumped out of her car into the driving rain, leaving her wipers busy and lights on.
“Mister, I need your truck, a full tank, and the rifle.” She tossed the keys of the Prius to him and removed her bags from the tiny trunk.
The man studied her briefly, his gaze hard and unyielding, then slowly nodded. “I don’t wanna know, do I?”
“No, you don’t. And I was never here. You may junk the car or sell it to a passerby; the farther they take it, the better.”
“We don’t need these toy cars.” The man fingered the pink pompoms on the keychain.
Sierra ignored him. She was a capo’s daughter, and cash always spoke loudest.
She dug into her stash and counted out twenty hundred-dollar bills. “Keys to that clunker. I’m taking the rifle and any ammo you have.”
“I don’t want to know.” The man handed her the keys and walked back into the store.
Sierra filled the tank, transferred her luggage, collected a box of bullets, and drove off, leaving her phone inside the Prius and her Las Vegas dreams up the tiny creek.
Turning around, she headed southeast, away from the neon lights and the big city. Where would she go and what would she do?
And how could she outrun the fame brought by that viral TikTok video?
Chapter Two
Hank Whitman rubbed his tired eyes as he pulled his loaded pickup truck to the end-of-the-road ferry stop. Seagulls patrolled the parking area in the early morning mist, searching for a dropped french fry or chip tossed from the waiting cars. He’d timed his arrival to ensure a spot on the eight o’clock ferry, and as he made the turn to the line, he noticed a rusted pickup truck with West Virginia plates in front of him.
The October air was nippy, and tourist season was winding down. Hank finally had a chance to do much-needed repairs. He’d spent the day shopping for building materials off the island. Since he owned a bed-and-breakfast, he often played a game with himself at the ferry stop—guessing if the people in the vehicle were tourists, contractors, or islander relatives. He already knew every resident on Hattokwa Island, and he wondered whose relative hailed from West Virginia.
He also made bets with himself on whether the visitor would book a room at his bed-and-breakfast, one of the more affordable venues in town—although off-season in the Outer Banks made even the resorts more affordable. Right before the ten-minute warning, a lone woman hurried from the visitor center toward the pickup truck. She was young and trim, inher twenties, wearing designer clothes—all black. A pair of giant sunglasses perched on her face, but the most striking thing about her was the sloppy dye job she’d done to her hair, leaving a platinum blond streak at the back of her head. That mishap brought a wistful smile to his face as he recalled how Chloe, his dear departed wife, had often rushed her dye job and had to wait until his next off-island shopping trip to get the exact color she wanted.
Before he could catch her eye, the woman stepped into the cab of the dilapidated pickup truck, taking with her a black, sequined designer purse. The ferry crew lowered the gates and began signaling the vehicles to enter. The rusty pickup truck was in the left lane of the boat while he ended up in the right lane next to her. Hank looked forward to the one-hour ride to Moonlit Harbor and wondered if he should strike up a conversation with the woman.
He wouldn’t tell her about her missed strand of hair, but no doubt, one of the helpful women around town would pull her aside and give her the 4-1-1. The island still had its small-town culture, and the North Carolina highway department had never gotten around to building a bridge to Hattokwa, leaving the island isolated and full of history.
Hank stretched his legs on the deck and breathed in the fresh air of the sound. People milled around him, exiting vehicles and exchanging greetings, while the woman remained seated, concealed behind dark sunglasses.
He’d bet his eyeteeth that she wasn’t a country gal from West Virginia, and he doubted she knew what to do with the rifle on her rack. With a thermos of hot coffee in hand, Hank wandered to the front of the ferry and greeted the sight of Hattokwa in the distance.
He checked his watch and called his sixteen-year-old daughter, Emma.
“Dad, I know what time it is,” she sighed. “And I’m getting ready for school.”
“Great. It should be quiet, but if anyone checks in, put them in your mom’s old sewing room—not that I expect anyone.”
“I know, I know. No one comes in the off-season anyway. See ya, Dad.” And the call ended.
Emma was a sweet girl, but like most young people her age, she had notions about leaving the island and never returning. She had big dreams about life in the big city, but Hank hoped that with maturity, she’d realize that Moonlit Harbor contained everything she needed for a happy life.
He glanced at the woman in the pickup truck, wondering what her story was. Once, long ago, he’d come to the end of the road and hitched a ride onto the island ... Perhaps the offer of coffee would bridge the gap.
