Chapter Twenty-Five
The Wolves Arrive
Harmony stood beside Cass, arms folded, hair whipped by the downdraft. The island shrank beneath the aircraft’s shadow—like Catalina was holding its breath.
Two figures stepped out first: homicide detectives.
Detective Adrian Vega—tall, angular, with the stillness of a predator who knew when not to move.
Detective Serena Hale—sharp-eyed, dark-haired, expression unreadable and unimpressed.
A criminal analyst followed, carrying equipment cases, with the coroner snapping on gloves before approaching the patio.
Vega and Hale paced the scene with measured steps. Their eyes scanned the body, the shattered sign, the taped-off patio, the tense crowd, the sharp scent of fear lingering in the air.
Harmony tracked Vega’s precise, icy gaze. The chill of his stare raised a shiver at the base of her neck.
He wasn’t here to comfort them.
He was here to unmask someone.
Sergeant Durante stepped forward. “Detectives Vega, Hale. I’m Sergeant Durante. My team has secured the scene, and we’ve done a lot of interviews.”
Vega gave him a curt nod. Hale didn’t say a word.
“Walk us through it,” Vega said.
His voice was low, the kind that could belong to a man or a murderer. Harmony nearly smiled. Tone truly was everything.
Durante bristled slightly but kept his composure. He got along with some detectives. Others, he despised—those who claimed to know more about the island than those who took pride in working on it.
“Body was found by Efrain and Zach at zero-seven-hundred. No one touched her. Eileen Roof has photographed the entire scene. No evidence has been collected. We waited for your team as requested. I’m afraid the storm washed away crucial evidence, though.”
“It isn’t storms that hang people,” Hale said, walking forward.
Durante’s shoulders squared. He held his ground, hiding any irritation behind a practiced calm.
Vega’s eyes slid to those who remained. “The interviews will be done again by my team.”
“You might want to look at our notes before you start,” Durante told the team.
“This is the third murder, Sergeant, in the space of two months. Notes aren’t going to cut it,” Vega said. “We’re doing this all ourselves now.”
Harmony almost smiled. Not kindly. More like a person watching a new chapter unfold.
Durante didn’t show what he was feeling. “Don’t forget that my men know this community. We know the people here and who is more likely to talk.”
Vega leaned in, lowering his voice. “Sometimes that’s a disadvantage—your bias distorts what you see.”
A muscle in Durante’s jaw ticked. This day would be never-ending.
Hale stepped among the waiting group, her gaze flicking methodically from one face to the next, as if mentally tagging potential suspects.
Zach looked utterly exhausted . . . and guilty, whether he was or not.
Mary stood still, her chin lifted, daring them to pick her first.
Torie was trembling, her mascara smudged, her arms crossed defensively.
Harmony watched Hale watching them.
Hale closed the distance between them, standing so near to Zach he had the urge to recoil. His jaw clenched, but he met her gaze with stubborn defiance.
“You found the body,” she said.
It wasn’t a question.
“Yes.” The answer was short and clipped.
“Again,” Vega said from behind her, his voice mild but cutting. “Three scenes, three bodies, three times you’re front and center.”
People glanced at Zach. His face was stone.
“I wasn’t looking for them.”
Mary cut in, her voice cool. “Some people are truly that unlucky.”
Hale’s gaze flicked to her. “And what are you, Miss—?”
“Mary is fine.”
“Fine,” Hale echoed. “What are you? Lucky? Unlucky? Something else?”
Mary smiled without warmth. “Surviving.”
Hale’s eyes narrowed. She didn’t like that answer.
Harmony stepped forward slightly, not enough to draw attention, just enough to feel the tension. Vega’s gaze snapped to her.
“And you?” Vega asked.
Harmony held his stare. “I write novels.”
“Crime books,” Vega said, again, not a question. He’d done his research. “Nice coincidence.”
Cass bristled beside her. “Harmony couldn’t kill anyone!”
Vega didn’t look at Cass. “Everyone’s innocent . . . until they’re not.”
Harmony tilted her head with a smile. “Seems you have a bit of a writer in you as well.”
“Nope, not at all,” Vega said. “I deal in facts, not fiction.”
Though it was clearly supposed to come across as an insult, Harmony was still smiling. She liked the guy even if he was hoping to cart one of them away. He didn’t appear to know what to think about her.
Hale strode over to Torie, who averted her eyes to the tarmac, her body tensing as attention landed on her.
“You were the last person to see the victim alive,” Hale said.
Torie’s throat bobbed. “I tried to stop her from leaving.”
Vega circled behind her, slow, deliberate, invasive. “Then why did witnesses say you two were fighting a hell of a lot?”
“We did fight, but we had a truce last night,” Torie insisted.
“People say you’ve said that a lot,” Hale said. “But it appears you have no way to prove that.”
Torie lost what little color she had left.
The coroner approached as Hale turned. Torie barely stayed upright. Mary helped before she could fall.
“Preliminary assessment suggests post-mortem staging consistent with the previous two.”
“Consistent how?” Vega asked.
Vega turned back to the group without a word. He looked at each one as if they were all guilty. Harmony was sure it would give him immense pleasure to take them all away in cuffs.
“The body was cleaned, draped, and arranged like an art project.”
Vega shook his head in disgust. “Our killer isn’t panicking. They’re growing bolder and more confident. This is the cleanest scene yet.”
Harmony’s stomach tightened—not in fear, but in recognition. This was an artist’s work, and something was off. Did any of the people she called friend have it in them to carry it out? Were they that talented? Were they artists?
Hale addressed the crowd. “You will each give formal statements at the station over the next forty-eight hours. No one leaves the island. Phones remain on twenty-four-seven. If we have to chase you, I promise it won’t be pleasant.”
Tosh snorted softly. Hale snapped her attention toward him.
“Do you find something amusing?”
Tosh’s expression didn’t change. “We’ve been told this repeatedly. But, no, I don’t find anything about this funny.”
Hale stepped closer to him. “You were personally involved with the victim, with two of the victims.”
“Yes. Sometimes. Not last night.”
“Yet you claim you were the last to wait for her.”
Tosh shrugged. “Sometimes hoping makes you a fool.”
“I fully agree with you there.” Hale turned away, but Vega continued watching Tosh carefully—far too carefully for Tosh’s comfort.
Harmony continued observing the detectives, fascinated by them. They moved with trained impatience—smart, cold, dangerously intuitive. But beneath that, there was something else entirely.
They were frustrated, feeling that they were being outsmarted, something they clearly hated. There was a game going on, and the killer held the winning hand so far. Vega turned and looked at Harmony again, his gaze steady.
“You seem very calm, Ms. Blake,” Vega said. “Most writers I know crumble faster than Oreos in warm milk when real blood spills.”
Harmony smiled. “I don’t crumble that easily. I might not like death, detective, but I understand it.” She paused a beat. “Even when I wish I didn’t?”
He paused a moment to see if he could make her squirm. He couldn’t. “Why’s that?” His voice was icy cold.
Harmony tilted her head. “Because I’ve done a lot of research. I’ve learned that stories teach us that people reveal themselves in three ways.”
“What ways are those?” He was trying to appear uninterested, but they both knew he needed to know what she had to say.
“What they love. What they fear.” She smiled while she shook her head. “And what they’d kill for.”
The air grew thicker as eyes widened at her words.
Vega watched her, and it felt like he could see straight into her soul.
She didn’t mind. He could try to navigate his way through her all he wanted.
It wouldn’t do him any good. She didn’t even understand herself.
There was no chance someone else could come in and solve the puzzle.
Hale interrupted the intimate moment between the two of them. “We need to move. I want to study this crime scene with a fine-tooth comb.” She turned to Durante. “Keep these people organized. Feed them. This day isn’t ending anytime soon, and I don’t want any damn technicalities ruining our case.”
The homicide team advanced, boots thudding, movements efficient. They swept onto the scene with predatory focus, intent on extracting the truth.
Cass leaned into Harmony. “I don’t like them,” she whispered.
Harmony watched them walk away, unfazed.
“Most people don’t when they’re suspects,” Harmony said. “I like them, though. They fascinate me.”
“What is wrong with you?” Cass said, shaking her head.
“There isn’t enough time left in my life for anyone to figure that out,” Harmony answered. “But, seriously, those detectives aren’t afraid of darkness. They’re ready to dive in without a life jacket.”
“How is that good for any of us?” Cass asked.
Harmony laughed. “It’s not good for the killer. I guess that person should be afraid.”
No one said anything to that statement.
The detectives worked in grim synchronization, their movements deliberate, practiced, and impatient.
Vega took a lot of time with the body, studying how Candy was put there, with what, and how her body was draped.
He even skimmed his gloved fingers over the splintered wood of the broken airport sign.
They were looking for needles in haystacks, but if anyone could find them, it would be his team.
Hale angled a special flashlight across the concrete. “Come look at this.”