Chapter Twenty-Seven
The Watchers
Never-ending fog drifted low over Avalon, sharpening a sense of dread that never seemed to leave.
When Harmony stepped out of The Brewhouse, the air felt colder than it should, like maybe someone had peeled away the edges of the world, and she was now standing on the seam that was unraveling slowly.
She needed space.
She needed silence.
Instead . . . she got Detective Vega.
He leaned against a deputy’s cruiser across the street, arms folded, expression carved from suspicion. When he saw her, he pushed off the hood and approached with a steadiness that made her pulse quicken—not in fear, but in evaluation.
“Busy morning?” he asked.
“My life is busy,” she easily replied.
Vega studied her face as if he were memorizing it.
“Have you ever noticed that when people are under pressure or hiding from the truth, they talk faster and longer?”
“I’ve noticed those people rarely say enough,” she countered.
His gaze sharpened, dark with calculation.
“You, Harmony, speak about these murders like you’re narrating them. You never live within the panic like so many of the others.”
She gazed back without fear. “You don’t know me, Detective. You don’t know how I cope with emotion or pressure.”
“True,” he said. “But I know how to read people.”
He stepped a little closer, his gaze dipping to her purse, where the folded note peeked out. Clearly, he’d heard the conversation they’d just had inside the coffee shop. It didn’t help that no doors shut in Avalon, making eavesdropping far too easy.
“Most people would be falling apart right now. Not you, though. You’re . . . steady.”
“Would it make me look less suspicious if I were falling apart? Should I put on a show for you?”
Vega took another step closer. Harmony refused to retreat. “There’s something that scares me about you, Harmony.”
She smirked at him. “What would that be, Detective?” She wanted to tell him he wasn’t allowed to use her first name anymore. But that would give the man power, and she was unwilling to offer him a single thing. She respected him, but that didn’t mean she liked the man.
“You seem to know exactly how this story ends. Does that mean you’re writing it?”
She met his stare without flinching. “Do you believe I’m the killer?”
Neither of them was beating around the bush, so she might as well ask the question. He paused for long enough that it would make most people sweat. Harmony wasn’t most people.
“People fear monsters for two reasons,” Vega murmured. “Either they don’t understand what the monster is . . . or they know it a little too well.”
Harmony was very aware he hadn’t answered her question.
He was making implications without painting himself into a corner.
She smiled, letting him know she wasn’t affected.
If she were being fully honest, she’d know that wasn’t true, but there wasn’t a chance she was giving this man an ounce of power.
Once she handed that over, she’d never get it back.
“I’ll remind you again, Detective Vega, that you don’t know me.” She emphasized his name, almost mocking.
She knew better than to cross the line with the law, but she had zero problem dipping her toe over the edge a little bit.
He smiled, confidence in his gaze. “True, I don’t know you . . . yet.”
He pulled back, boots echoing on the wet pavement. He took a few steps before turning his head, looking at her once more.
“Harmony, I’d be careful if I were you. Terror cracks people. Sometimes killers crack, too.”
He then walked away, the fog swallowing him.
Harmony let out a long, slow exhale. She turned . . . then stopped as a chill slid down her spine. She tried seeing past the fog, but it was impossible.
She didn’t know how she knew, but had no doubt someone’s eyes were on her.
She refused to cower. She took confident steps forward. After a few more steps, Deputy Evans came into view at the bottom of the stairs leading up to Steve’s Steakhouse. He held a notebook but wasn’t writing. He was watching . . . her, his gaze intent.
A faint glimmer of recognition crossed his eyes—not of guilt, not of accusation, but of possession, like someone seeing a secret they weren’t ready to let go of.
“Been here long?” she casually asked.
“Long enough,” he murmured.
“For what?” she asked. She was done being looked at like a suspect in the place she’d always found serenity.
“For patterns. Schedules. Habits.”
Patterns meant he’d been studying her long before this morning. Maybe longer than she realized. Harmony suddenly felt the uncomfortable truth that Evans might have already mapped her habits, her walks, the rhythm of her days.
His stare drifted over her features, unsettling in its precision. “We’re all aware how composed you remain under pressure. Most people don’t. That kind of control says a lot about a person.”
“I don’t see how composure is a problem.”
“It’s not,” he said. “It’s . . . interesting.”
He took a step forward—not threatening, but undeniably invasive. She waited, knowing he had more to say. He didn’t take long.
“I’ve noticed something else, too. Every time something happens here—every shift, every new clue—you seem to be right in the middle of it. Do you like the fire?”
Harmony smiled. “I’m often cold. Maybe I’m looking for the heat.”
“Or maybe,” Evans said, not backing down. “Maybe you know how not to get burned.”
Something about the way he said it felt off. Familiar. Like the voice she’d half-heard through the roar of the storm on the mountain road. The one she’d convinced herself wasn’t real.
Harmony felt the shift in the air. There was an unspoken recognition that the deputies and detectives were watching her closely.
She was being studied . . . by more than one person.
They were reading her and enjoying it. She wasn’t used to being watched.
She didn’t like it. And yet, a part of her—a dark, curious part—understood the attention.
Writers studied the world. Now the world was studying her back.
“Writers often seem far more fascinating than we actually are. As much as we’d like to live in the worlds we write, our lives are far more boring than you can imagine.
It’s why we write, to settle the dullness of life, to live the adventures we dream about without actually realizing.
But if you want to make me more exciting than I already am, then please, do it. ”
He smiled—cold.
“Detective Vega thinks you’re worth watching,” Evans said. “I believe he might have come to the party a little late.”
Her pulse skipped . . . not enough for him to see, just enough for her to know this moment mattered.
“Why don’t you tell me exactly what you’re implying, Deputy?”
“People love hiding things. They’re good at it.” He didn’t move and didn’t break eye contact. “I’m very good at noticing who’s hiding the deepest secrets. I haven’t failed yet.”
She didn’t say anything. She refused to defend herself when there was nothing to defend. The silence stretched between them like another body had dropped from the heavens.
“Don’t worry, Harmony, I’m not going anywhere. We all take a lot of pride in this community. We protect one another.” He gave another long pause. “The mainland detectives will leave soon . . . but our department doesn’t go anywhere.”
There was something unhinged in the softness of his voice, something that suggested he expected to be standing at her shoulder long after the murder cases closed. Harmony felt the phantom weight of that future, cold and unwelcome.
His look lingered for another long moment. Then, he walked away, not once turning to look back. He didn’t need to. His message had come through loud and clear.
Harmony stood perfectly still. She evaluated the two conversations. Vega suspected her mind. Evans was tracking something else entirely—something darker, something a lot more personal.
They were both watching . . . and neither was done.
On this island, danger wasn’t just the killer in the shadows. It was also the men who thought they understood others . . . especially her. They were fools.
She could handle killers. They were predictable. It was the men who wanted her truth, her mind, her fear. Those were the ones who broke stories wide open.