Chapter Ten
Tension Builds
The fog rolled in like a secret no one wanted told, wrapping Avalon in a hush that felt deliberate.
It clung to the cliffs and windows, softening colors, muffling sound, making the town feel smaller.
The island didn’t just look trapped; it was trapped, sealed beneath a sky that pressed down until every sound felt too close.
Harmony sat at her window, notebook open, pen balanced in her fingers, the ink bleeding in the heavy summer air.
Below, the town moved more slowly than usual.
The tourists stayed near the main drag. Locals walked in pairs, voices low, eyes darting.
It wasn’t just the weather making them uneasy.
It was what they didn’t say. It was the stories twisting their tongues.
Outside, the world blurred—silhouettes of boats rocking in the harbor, pale lights fading in the mist. The island looked softer, but she knew better. Avalon only softened when it was hiding something.
Sometimes, as her pen moved, Harmony had the unnerving sense that someone else was reading over her shoulder. Not in the room, not literally, but out there. As if the island itself were skimming every sentence and deciding what to do with it.
Her journal had become less like notes and more like confessionals.
Lies written so cleanly, they passed for truth.
She wasn’t writing what was real anymore—only what people believed.
That was the real story, anyway. The one people built to protect themselves.
Each truth twisted to see how it would fit differently in another mouth.
Candy fell again last night. Tosh said it was clumsiness. Torie said it was proof. Mary said it was karma. Zach said nothing . . . which told her everything.
Harmony left her place, and it didn’t take long to reach The Lobster Trap. Candy sat at the bar, sunglasses hiding the evidence. Her lips were swollen, her wrist wrapped in a thin scarf that wasn’t for fashion. Tosh sat two stools away, pretending to check his phone, pretending she didn’t matter.
At a table near the wall, Deputy Ciscel sat alone with a bowl of chowder growing cold, his spoon untouched. He wasn’t watching the game on the mounted TV like everyone else. His gaze drifted between Candy, Tosh, and Harmony as if he were quietly mapping the distance between all three.
Harmony slid onto the seat between Tosh and Candy, her voice soft. “Rough night?”
If you weren’t watching, you might’ve missed the flinch Candy couldn’t completely hide. “Nope, just clumsy,” she lied.
Tosh didn’t look up. “She’s always falling,” he said, voice edged with sarcasm.
“Gravity’s a jealous mistress,” Candy murmured, trying to laugh. The sound broke mid-way.
Harmony slowly stirred her coffee. “You two should stay away from cliffs. You look like evidence.”
Candy’s laugh cracked again. “Guess which one I am.”
“Depends,” Harmony said. “Before the bruises or after?”
Candy flinched and gave another fake laugh. “I told you I fell.”
Tosh’s voice came low and flat. “Nothing unusual for her.”
Harmony turned toward him. “Maybe she’s tired of being caught.”
Tosh finally met her gaze. There it was—the flash of irritation, the spark that said he’d been drinking too long and lying too often.
Harmony watched his face closely. Something was going on, but she didn’t know what.
She didn’t think Tosh was the one putting marks on Candy .
. . and yet, if not him, then who? And why didn’t Tosh care? Why didn’t any of them?
Candy sighed, picking at the rim of her glass. “Do you think everyone’s lying all the time?”
Harmony waited a heartbeat. “Not everyone. Just the people who insist they aren’t.”
Tosh scoffed. “You sound like my therapist.”
“You don’t have one,” Candy said.
“Exactly,” Tosh said.
Harmony smiled into her drink. “That explains so much.”
The silence that followed wasn’t comfortable. The only sound was rain against windows, steady as breathing. When Harmony finally stood, Candy whispered, almost too softly to hear. “If I told you something . . . would you believe me?”
For a heartbeat, unguarded honesty flashed in Candy’s eyes. It was gone just as quickly, buried under performance. Whatever she’d been about to say was dangerous enough that even she didn’t dare give it language.
Harmony tilted her head. “Depends on whether you tell me the truth or the story.”
Candy’s lips parted, but she stopped herself. “Maybe it’s the same thing.”
“Not on this island,” Harmony said.
Candy went quiet. The moment closed. Harmony walked away.
The words hung in the air—light on the surface—but Candy’s hand trembled around her glass. Tosh finally looked at her as the thunder rolled over the water. The storm was getting closer.
Outside, Harmony moved down the street and spotted Deputy Evans and Deputy Duong standing beside their patrol unit, fog beading on their tan uniforms.
Deputy Ciscel stood a few feet behind them, a notepad in hand, head bent as he wrote something down. He didn’t look up when she approached, but she was uncomfortably aware that, out of all of them, he was the one who always seemed to be recording.
“Harmony,” Evans said with a short nod. His eyes were tired, jaw tight.
“How are you guys holding up?” she asked.
“Could be better,” Duong said. His gaze swept the street, then landed back on her, sharp and assessing. “We don’t like unsolved crimes on our island.”
Harmony nodded. “Any leads?”
Evans shook his head once. “And if we had some,” he said gravely, “we wouldn’t be sharing them out here.”
“You two are the best of the best,” Harmony told them. “I’m sure it won’t be long now.”
That earned the faintest curve at the corner of Evans’s mouth. Duong didn’t smile, but his shoulders eased by a fraction.
“Stay safe,” he said.
Behind them, Deputy Ciscel stepped out of the fog with his notepad half-open, pretending he hadn’t been listening. He nodded once at Harmony—polite, unreadable. His gaze lingered too long on her notebook, as if memorizing details he wasn’t allowed to collect.
“Morning,” he said quietly. Too quietly.
Something in his tone made the hair on Harmony’s arms lift.
Ciscel walked on without another word, writing something down she couldn’t see.
“Aren’t I always safe?” she said with a shake of her head. Then she walked on, feeling their eyes on her until the fog swallowed her.
By afternoon, Torie cornered Harmony near the harbor, eyes red-rimmed and wild. “I saw them,” she hissed. “Together. He says I’m paranoid, but I saw her shirt. I saw his hands.” Her voice broke. “He thinks I’m stupid.”
Harmony rested a hand on her shoulder. “You’re not crazy, Torie. Sometimes people confuse guilt with love.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just that Tosh doesn’t fake who he is. If a person is with him, they have to understand that—and either accept what he offers, or walk away.”
Torie’s breath hitched, fury sparking beneath exhaustion. “If I find out—”
“You will,” Harmony said gently. “The truth always surfaces. Tosh is . . . Tosh.” She shrugged.
“Don’t make jokes!”
“I’m not.”
Torie’s hands shook around her coffee cup. “Well, if I’m paranoid, then he’s unstable.”
“I think you’re awake, Torie. Everyone else is still pretending.”
“He’s going to make me look crazy,” Torie whispered. “That’s what men like him do. They wear charm like armor, and when you start bleeding, they tell everyone you did it to yourself.”
Harmony didn’t argue. She’d seen that particular magic trick before—how a woman’s fear could be turned into entertainment, her fury into hysteria with a single well-placed shrug.
Harmony studied her face. The desperation. The edge. The way her eyes refused to settle. “It’s easy,” Harmony said. “Stop bleeding for him.”
Torie blinked. “What?”
“You heard me.” Harmony’s voice stayed calm, cool, and collected. “If you stop reacting, he loses power. Let him wonder what you know.”
Torie nodded slowly, like a student memorizing a lesson. “You really think I should?”
“I think you already have,” Harmony said.
Outside, thunder rolled. Inside, the lie took root.
Harmony liked walking in a summer storm. She had no desire to head inside. She moved along the back street when Zach stepped into view, appearing out of the fog like a ghost, toolbelt low on his hips, shirt damp from sweat and rain.
“Storm’s going to tear some of these decks apart,” he said, glancing up from beneath the brim of his cap.
“You’ll enjoy fixing them all over again.”
“Can’t leave things broken,” he replied with a shrug.
“Does that mean people, too?” Harmony asked.
He huffed out a laugh. “People aren’t fixable.”
“Do you ever stop working?” she pressed.
“Work keeps me out of trouble.”
“Trouble’s not always bad.”
He smirked. “You would be the one to say that.”
“I can prove it,” she countered.
Zach wore calculation in his eyes. “You spend a lot of time collecting other people’s secrets. Do you ever worry someone might be collecting yours?”
Harmony smiled. “Let them try. I’m not easy to read.”
He nodded toward her notebook. “Maybe they already have.”
“Bring it,” she said.
He didn’t answer, but his gaze lingered a second too long. There was something in it—a knowledge, maybe. Or guilt. Guilt of what? Zach had a way of being where he didn’t belong, moving through Avalon like the tide—quiet, patient, collecting fragments.
Harmony didn’t look away. Neither did he. The hum of insects faded. Only the pulse of the storm and the faint clink of glasses from somewhere nearby remained. Up close, she saw the cracks—a twitch in his jaw, a shadow behind his eyes.
She took a slow sip from her bottle, aware of his gaze tracking the movement. “You always stare like you’re waiting for someone to confess.”
“Maybe I am,” he said softly. “People tell you everything if you’re silent long enough.”
Somewhere behind them, a car door shut. The sound carried strangely in the fog, echoing down the narrow street. Harmony didn’t turn.
“Do I look like I’m ready to confess?”