CHAPTER THREE
HAZEL
IT’S BEEN TWO days since the murder, and the silence from Michael gnaws at me like a slow poison. I’ve thought of going back to the church to get pictures of the blood that must still stain the concrete, but I’m not brave enough. I keep thinking the man might be waiting for me to return to the scene. But I don’t need a photo; I have something disturbingly better.
I hadn’t realized I had hit record on my phone when I was trying to get a better look at the men behind the church, but I had, and I have evidence that the crime happened. I have evidence that I witnessed an execution. No matter how many times I watch the footage, I can’t stop the pounding of my heart or how my palms grow slick with sweat. The footage becomes fuzzy toward the end as I run home, but I was still recording. The recording cuts off when I enter the front door. I must have turned off the recording then by accident.
My stomach churns as I picture the blood, the stillness, the terrible finality of it all. I should have heard from Michael by now —anything—a call, a text, even a cryptic note shoved under my door. But there’s nothing. The waiting has me wound so tightly that I jump at my own shadow, certain someone’s coming for me.
I’m done sitting around. I grab my keys off the counter. Charlie paces around my feet, and I kneel. “You stay here; I won’t be long.”
My car is just outside my small cottage. I slide into the driver’s seat, slamming the door shut behind me. The cold leather bites at my legs through my jeans as I fumble with the keys, my breath hitching in frustration. My glasses are perched on the dashboard where I left them, and I shove them onto my nose, the weight familiar and grounding. My phone, with the evidence, lands with a dull thud on the passenger seat.
The engine growls to life beneath my fingers. Charlie is perched at the window, watching me go.
He doesn’t want me to go—I know that. But I can’t stay locked up in that suffocating house a moment longer. “If Michael won’t come to me,” I mutter, tightening my grip on the steering wheel as I pull away from the curb, “then I’ll find him myself.”
The road stretches out before me, empty and desolate. The faint glow of the headlights slices through the mist hanging in the air. They had warned we would have a storm tonight, but so far, only the mist has formed.
The drive from Monatly to Nobber feels longer than usual; every mile weighed down by the weight of my decision. By the time I pull up to the building, the sky is ink-black, and the air feels heavy, oppressive. I cut the engine, the silence that follows deafening.
The building stands before me, small and old. They had shut this station down more times than I can count, saying the Gardai were better served in the busier parts of the country, but each time they did, all the locals came out in droves, protesting until it was reopened. The metal shutter is pulled down tight. My heart sinks. I knew it wouldn’t be easy, but this…this feels like a slap in the face.
I step out of the car and approach the building, knocking on the door in hopes that someone is inside, but I already know no one is here. “Damn it, Michael,” I hiss, his name venomous on my tongue. “Where the hell are you?”
The wind picks up, carrying the faint scent of rain and something else—something bitter and metallic. It sets my nerves on edge, my skin prickling with unease. I glance around, then I see it—a flicker of movement in the corner of my eye—a shadow. A man standing outside an auction house that only opens on Sunday is watching me. My chest tightens, and my gaze is locked on his. His hood covers his features, but his sheer size terrifies me.
I duck my head and make my way back to my car. The minute I climb in, I lock the doors and glance in the rearview mirror. My heart thuds heavily. He’s gone.
I’m staring out the back window, my head whipping around, but I can’t see him. The minute my engine starts and my lights cut through the mist, I notice another set of lights across the road. I pull out and start driving, the car follows me.
I try to stay calm, and my fingers tighten around the steering wheel. I leave Nobber, the street lights a distant beacon, and now I’m swallowed by the darkness of the small meandering roads.
I reach for my phone, feeling around on the passenger seat for it as I keep focused on the road ahead of me. The rain starts to fall, making large splashes against my window shield. My fingers tighten around the device, and I’m ready to ring the Gardai in Kells, when I notice no car follows me. I let out a shaky breath. I’m being paranoid. The rest of the drive home is uneventful, and when I pull up outside my small cottage, I cut the engine, grab my phone, and hurry straight inside.
I make it home, my heart pounding like a war drum. The cottage feels suffocating as I pace the kitchen, clutching my phone. I can’t call Michael again. He clearly can see my missed calls. I know that sometimes they get sent to Navan, a larger town that has a higher crime rate than our small area. Who else is there? My fingers hover over Mary’s name before I press the button. She answers on the third ring.
“Hazel? What’s wrong?”
I hesitate, the words caught in my throat. Do I tell her? She’ll ask questions I can’t answer. Not yet. “Someone’s been following me,” I say finally, the lie half-formed.
“What? Where are you now? Are you safe?” Her voice is warm, full of concern.
“I’m home.” I don’t mention the murder or the way every creak in the floorboards feels like a threat. “I just…needed to hear a friendly voice.” She moved to France a few months back, and I know she can’t do anything but to hear a friendly voice is what I need right now.
“Are you sure someone was following you, hun?” she asks.
I force a laugh. “I’m a little jumpy lately. I’m sure it’s nothing.”
Mary lets out a soft breath. “God, Hazel. I wish I was there with you; I know Benny’s death shocked the entire village. I’m sorry you are going through this by yourself.”
I glance out the window, but the storm has darkened the streets and makes visibility next to none. “There is nothing you could do. We are doing okay.” I say the half-truth.
I check the lock on the front door three times as I speak to Mary. Charlie rubs against my leg, and I lean down and pat his head.
“So, tell me about France. How is the weather?”
Mary’s voice sounds happier as she speaks. “It’s close to Irish weather, but minus all the rain.” I grin.
“So it’s nothing like the Irish weather,” I say.
We both laugh, but the rumble of thunder has me stopping just before a flash of lightning lights up the room. “Speaking of rain, we have a storm here now. I’d better unplug everything … ” The power cuts off, and I curse.
“Everything okay?” Mary asks.
“Yeah, I just need to find a candle. The power is gone. I’ll call you back.”
“Okay, hun.”
After we hang up, the storm rages outside, mirroring the chaos in my head. Rain lashes at the windows, and thunder shakes the roof, the sound reverberating through the walls. I light a candle, its small flame flickering in the drafts. The dim light feels fragile, like it could go out at any moment. But it gives me light. Charlie races past my legs and dives behind the couch as another roar of thunder scares him. He hates storms. Normally, these are my favorite nights. I love reading by the candlelight as the world is thrown into chaos outside, while inside my small cottage, I’m safe.
That sense of safety has been smashed. I slip my phone into my pocket and get down on my hands and knees. “Come on, Charlie, it’s okay.” I try to coax him out from behind the couch, but he isn’t budging.
Then I hear it—a faint rustle at the back door. My breath catches, and I freeze.
No. Not now.
The sound comes again, louder this time. My heart races as I grab the nearest weapon within reach—a heavy brass candlestick that was once my grandmothers, one of the items I inherited after her death, along with a set of China that I only use at Christmas, all her books and this brass candlestick. The flickering light from the lone candle throws long, dancing shadows across the walls as I inch toward the door and out into the tiny hallway that connects to my kitchen.
I can’t see anything and curse myself for not bringing the candle. But I can make out the shadow of the man who’s standing in my kitchen. Tall and imposing, his wet hair plastered to his forehead. He’s drenched from the storm, but the cold look in his eyes sends a shiver down my spine as he steps closer to me.
“You must be Hazel,” he says, his voice smooth but coiled tight with menace.
My hands tremble as I tighten my grip on the candlestick. “Get out,” I snap, trying to keep my voice steady.
His lips curl into a smirk, and he steps closer, his presence filling the small room. “Easy now,” he says like he’s talking to a skittish animal; he’s so close I can smell the cold and an undercurrent of his aftershave.
I swing the candlestick with all the force I can muster. He’s fast—faster than I expect—but not fast enough. The edge of it catches his shoulder, and he stumbles back, muttering a curse under his breath.
“Not bad,” he says, rubbing the spot. “Didn’t think you’d put up a fight.”
His smirk fades, replaced by something harder, more dangerous. He straightens, his dark eyes locking onto mine like a predator sizing up its prey.
“I’m not here to hurt you, Hazel. But I suggest you listen carefully,” he says, his tone as sharp as the storm outside. “Because whether you like it or not, your life just got a hell of a lot more complicated.”