Chapter Forty
The Story Must Go On
The cursor blinked, patient and expectant, as if waiting to be impressed.
It always waited for her. Harmony’s desk lamp cast her face in soft amber while the rest of the cottage remained drowned in shadow.
Outside, the ocean pressed itself against the cliffs in rhythmic surrender.
Avalon was peaceful again—at least at the surface.
She began typing.
I needed a better story. I needed inspiration. The truth was never enough on its own.
Words unfurled easily, like they’d been sitting behind her tongue for months, waiting for permission to breathe.
A story isn’t alive until it bleeds. Until it hurts. Until it forces someone to wonder what they would do if they were me.
She took a sip of wine, smiling faintly. The moonlight shimmered through the window, silvering the pages of notes that were scattered around her—color-coded tabs, timelines, sketches of scenes, psychological triggers mapped like terrain. Beautiful chaos. Only she understood the pattern.
The trick wasn’t killing. The trick was making it all look like chance. I had to make it look like the island was alive, like it had teeth, and wasn’t afraid to use them. I had to make sure the story went on.
She leaned back and let herself remember.
The first body had been the hardest. Not morally—physically.
She’d underestimated the weight, the way flesh fought gravity in death.
The warmth fading under her hands. The resistance of a body that didn’t want to become still.
She hadn’t planned the murder, but opportunity had struck.
She’d written death a hundred different ways.
The reality of it was unlike anything she could’ve ever imagined.
By the second one, she’d adapted. She’d studied nautical knots, counterweights, crime-scene staging. All under the guise of realistic research for a writer. People forgive obsession if it produces art. Besides, no one questions a writer’s browser history—not when the story is good enough.
Art begins in chaos. Meaning comes later.
At first it made me sick. The sound, the smell, the finality of it.
But Art is shaped, trimmed, and made beautiful.
By the third body, I understood what had to be done.
I wasn’t killing . . . I was creating meaning.
I was giving them a story worth remembering.
Harmony clicked open another folder—draft manuscripts titled with each victim’s name.
Lisa.
Heidi.
Candy.
Janie.
Janie’s file remained nearly empty.
I never planned to kill her. Plans change when witnesses don’t look away. She was simply . . . inconvenient. I never liked her. She was too observant. Too bold. She asked why I was always nearby. She watched my eyes when others spoke. She was the first person to truly see me.
Harmony took a deep breath, her fingers hovering above the keys, her brow furrowed.
I didn’t lie to her once my decision was made. There was no point. Some people beg beautifully. Janie begged badly. She’s a death I feel zero remorse for.
She looked again at Heidi’s folder. Harmony paused on her name longer than she meant to. Heidi hadn’t fit as cleanly into the pattern. That should’ve bothered her more than it did.
She’d taken her time with Heidi. Not because the logistics demanded it, but because something in her resisted efficiency. Harmony didn’t understand the sensation at first. It wasn’t rage. It wasn’t fear. It certainly wasn’t love.
Heidi’s laugh had lingered too easily around Zach. Her hand had rested on his arm as if it belonged there. Harmony had observed it the way she observed everything else, cataloging details, noting reactions. But this time, the data had come with friction.
Jealousy, she decided.
The word felt foreign. Academic. She didn’t experience emotions the way other people did. She studied them. Dissected them. Used them. And yet, with Heidi, the impulse had been . . . personal.
Harmony hadn’t rushed. She’d watched longer. Adjusted more carefully. The scene mattered. The pacing mattered. Heidi’s fear had unfolded slowly, beautifully, as if Harmony were testing a hypothesis she hadn’t known she was forming.
Harmony didn’t show emotion the way the rest of them did, not since she’d been shamed because of it.
But, they would all be shocked to realize how much she actually did feel.
Sure, she could hide within herself, but when no one was looking, she stopped pretending.
She didn’t have to lie anymore . . . especially to herself.
When Heidi’s death was finished, Harmony had felt something close to clarity and . . . satisfaction. The distraction had been removed. She’d never touch Zach again.
Heidi’s death had taught her something important.
Not about desire.
About ownership.
About loyalty.
She opened another folder: Communications Log.
A timeline of burner-phone messages, scheduled weeks ahead. Voicemails. GPS-spoofed photos. Alibis created in digital shadow. Technology doesn’t create monsters. It just makes them efficient.
Everyone expects chaos from a killer. Predictability is far more effective. So I built patterns and routines anyone in a uniform would recognize, then twisted them just enough to look like something the island itself had done.
She even wrote messages to herself—perfectly timed, perfectly panicked—to sell the illusion that she was a victim along with the rest of them. If they didn’t know where to look, they’d keep spinning in circles until they grew dizzy and collapsed.
Fear is contagious. Shared fear is currency. Comfort ruins purpose.
She laughed quietly, the sound soft.
Mary had been the easiest. Grief made her porous. Anger made her blind. Harmony didn’t need to push hard—just enough to guide suspicion, enough to let Mary’s personal darkness come to the surface.
She’s a murderer, too. I respect her for finishing what grief started.
The world told her not to break. She broke anyway.
We understand each other. We’re better for it.
Mary had almost taken the fall. That had never been the plan.
Luckily, things turned out the way they were supposed to.
Now, I can continue my friendship with Mary.
I think she’ll play a key role in my next adventure.
Harmony refilled her wine.
Torie, though . . . Torie had been a masterpiece.
Torie. Poor, beautiful, broken Torie. I never laid a hand on her.
I simply whispered when no one was listening.
A single word here, a suggestion there. A forged message from Tosh’s number.
A photograph where she’d find it. A diary entry rewritten to look like someone else’s handwriting.
A phone call she was meant to hear. The mind breaks easily when it’s already cracked. You only have to tap the fault line.
Torie collapsed exactly as Harmony knew she would.
Harmony pressed play on the small recorder. Torie’s voice filled the room—trembling at first, then laughing, then screaming. Harmony closed her eyes, letting the sound ripple inside her. The silence afterward was always the reward.
Torie wanted to be remembered. She didn’t know how. I gave it to her. Broken minds often tell the truth sideways. Torie was the only one who ever came close to naming what I really am. But madness steals credibility long before it steals sanity.
Harmony scrolled through her final notes.
The hardest part was making it look human.
People demand motive. They need a culprit whose madness makes sense. So Harmony gave them one. She gave them a pattern painted on walls. She gave them notes left in trembling handwriting. She gave them a confession crafted through implication, chaos, and expectation.
They believed because they wanted to believe.
Torie in a psych ward.
Mary absolved.
Cass trembling.
Zach tormented.
Tosh forever questioning his own failures.
They all live in my story now. Eternal. Exactly as I planned.
Harmony saved her documents under a new name. Catalina Whispers—Book One. The title made her smile.
She stood, stretching sore muscles. The hem of her silk robe whispered against her thighs. The house hummed softly with the sound of her laptop. The waves outside inhaled and exhaled like a giant creature sleeping.
Harmony returned to her chair.
They’ll never know. They’ll move on, heal, rebuild. And when they do, maybe I’ll start again. Maybe another island. Maybe an entirely new story. It might be smaller. It might be larger. It might be closer to home.
They think I wrote about the killings. I didn’t.
I wrote about art. I documented every scream.
Every lie. Every heartbeat was a new sentence.
Now, the story is finished . . . for now.
I won’t kill again. That was just for this story.
It didn’t awaken something in me that now needs fed.
But there is always a new story that needs a new plot.
I don’t know what the next one will be yet, what players I’ll need for inspiration.
It won’t take long for me to figure it out, though.
And the island, quiet and obedient, waited like a page held open by invisible hands. It still inspired her, still spoke to her. Whispers floated down from the hills high above. When her feet touched the warm ocean, it woke her.
Before Harmony could close her laptop, her phone buzzed.
A single text—from an unknown number.
A picture of her cottage . . . taken from below . . . five minutes ago. The angle was deliberate. Measured.
Below the picture were four words.
Nice ending. Try again.
Harmony stared. She hadn’t scheduled that message.
She hadn’t scripted that voice. She hadn’t been the only one writing a story this entire time.
She’d figured that out long ago. It should fill her with fear.
For some reason, it didn’t. Maybe, deep down inside she was afraid, but she was so good at burying what she didn’t want to face, that she didn’t understand her own emotions ninety percent of the time.
Her heartbeat didn’t race. Her breath didn’t hitch. Instead, a slow, electric thrill unfurled through her chest.
Someone else thinks they’re writing with me now. Someone wants to play. Someone wants a sequel. I’ve never written with a partner before. It could be a challenge. It could be exciting. It could possibly take me to heights I’ve never reached before.
Harmony smiled again. Logically, she knew she should feel at least a bit of fear . . . but she felt none. She was excited. It seemed a new game had begun. She always had enjoyed games.
She pressed save.
She looked at the file resting on her home screen. It was absolutely beautiful. She savored it. Then, with a small, satisfied smile, she sent the file to her trash bin and emptied it. The only copies left were in her head—and in places she’d never need to retrieve them from.
She did have another story that would publish, a story inspired by it all. But not this one. This one was personal. This one had made her into a new woman. This one couldn’t be read by anyone.
The cursor blinked once. The ocean whispered. Somewhere outside, gravel shifted under someone’s foot. Harmony closed her eyes.
Every story needs an ending. But the best ones—the very best—invite another beginning.
The screen went dark.