Page 29 of Broken Lines

I groan, shaking the macabre thoughts of my own demise from my head. Then I rush down the last of the steps to the shore. I’m already mentally trying to prepare myself for the horrible boat ride back across the bay. Which is going to be ten times worse going this way, considering I didn’t even get the story I came for, plus I’malreadycold and wet before even step foot into the boat—

Oh, God.

I pause, my heart lurching up into my throat as my eyes scan the empty beach. I take another step onto the rocky shore, my eyes darting back-and-forth, peering at the rocks as if somehow the boat I rowed over here in will magically reappear.

Because currently, it’s nowhere to be seen.

My chest constricts. My lungs squeeze. I bolt back and forth across the rocky, sandy little beach, which is only maybe twenty feet across.

My eyes aren’t playing tricks on me.

There is no boat.

I stare at the waves crashing against the rocks. And I realize they’re much higher up the shore than they were when I arrived.

I groan.

I pulled the boat in from the water. The water rose. The boat, that I didn’t actually tie to anything, is now gone and probably washed out to sea.

My face pales, and my mind gleefully goes back to plotting its twisted true crime Netflix special. I imagine the chapter where the Coast Guard two states away finds the remnants of my boat washed up on shore.

But then, shaking my head free of those thoughts, I think about reality. Not the Netflix special. Not the dramatized version.

Therealversion. The very real reality that at the moment, I am soaked to the bone, cold, scared, and trapped on Jackson Havoc’s private little island.

Alone with him.

I stare at the place where the boat should be. As if somehow, my hopes and wishes will make it reappear, ending this nightmare.

But that's not happening.

My head swivels to the dock, my lip catching in my teeth.

Thereisa boat. It’s just not mine. And while stealing Jackson’s boat should be as appealing as waiting to see if he really does throw me off a cliff…what’s he gonna do? Swim after me?

I smile thinly as I bolt for the dock and down the wet planks to where the motorboat is tied up. But quickly, my hopes sink like rocks in the tide.

It’s not tied up. It’schainedup. And locked.

Fuck you, world.

I jiggle it and try yanking at the chain. But it’s no use. For a second, I even entertain the idea of finding a tool of some kind in the boathouse to jimmy open the lock. But the door tothatis locked fast, too.

This is a dead end.

Shivering, I shuffle back to the shore. I turn, swallowing a cold lump as I stare out at the water. Slowly, I shuffle backwards until my foot catches a rock. I fall back, landing on my ass on the cold damp, rocky sand. Numb, I open my bag, snatching out my wallet and cell phone still in the Ziplock bag. But it's the same thing as wishing for a boat that doesn't exist anymore.

There’s still no cell service.

Still no boat.

Still nothing to do but either stay here and freeze or haul myself back up to the house of the grumpy, snarky asshole who just threw me out.

I shiver as I toss the phone back in my bag and stare out at the ocean. It's not dark yet, but it's going to be in a little bit. Sooner than I want.

I sit there another few minutes, wallowing in my own misery. But finally, reality pressing down on me, I stand. Then I turn to look up at the stairs that lead back to the house.

Shit.

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