Chapter 20
twenty
. . .
The lamp next to the sofa blinded Evan awake at whatever ungodly hour it was when the island regained power.
His watch and phone were in the other room, so all he had to go on was the pitch dark beyond the windows, the sort of inky blackness that meant dawn wasn’t even close. He rolled over and switched off the lamp, but sleep had already left him behind. A return to dreamland was beyond his grasp.
No loss, really. The sleep he had gotten wasn’t great.
The storm kept replaying over and over in his dreams, with a variety of increasingly absurd and gory endings.
He felt both hungover and drunk. The sort of over-exhausted stupor that came when you’d gone a little too hard on the intense emotions.
Today had brought him to a brink he hadn’t seen in a long, long time, and he was thankful he’d avoided going all the way over the edge.
He had Heath to thank for that. Where the hell was he?
If you’re in that soggy bed, you fucking martyr.
He rolled off the couch and went straight to the porch, but there was no sign of his belligerent husband. On a hunch, he checked the bedroom, and though it was also empty, there were signs the opportunist had helped himself for at least a short while.
Heath had slept in his bed.
Jesus, man. Get a grip.
There was a strange and uncomfortable twisting in his stomach, but he pushed it off. He was too tired and wrung out to play What If on hard mode. He needed a gallon of water, a shower, and the entire tube of toothpaste he’d brought with him. Then he needed to figure out where his husband was.
Two tall glasses of water and a vigorous scrubbing of his teeth set him on the right path.
He ventured out onto the patio, certain Heath wouldn’t have gotten very far.
He’d barely survived the walk from the lobby in broad daylight and recounted his run-in with the lizard at every opportunity.
No way he’d have gone wandering off in the dark alone.
The stillness in the air bordered on unnerving.
A mist had kicked up after the storm, painting the landscape in an abstract haze, but he could see the foamy caps of waves cresting the top of the wall through the dim glow of the solar lighting.
That meant the tide was in. What he didn’t see was any sign of Pooks.
“Heath?”
The fog muffled his voice, seeming to slap the inquiry right out of the air. The stones beneath his bare feet held a lingering chill from the storm and the sort of squidgy insecurity only a long-wet surface could provide. He felt the promise of slipping and breaking his ass with every step.
There was a flicker of movement near the pool, caught just in his periphery, and a prickle crawled up the back of his neck. There’d been no mention of spooky island legends, but he’d be shocked if none existed, and he wondered if he was about to discover one of them the hard way.
He turned in that direction, neatly answering the long-held question of how long it would take him to die in a slasher film. Without a doubt, he’d be dead before the opening credits.
“Heath? You out here, Pooks?” If nothing else, maybe the pet name would lure him out of the shadows to smack him. The more he hated it, the more Evan enjoyed using it.
As always happened, the moment he gave it his full attention, whatever he’d seen had disappeared. Nothing loitered between the small palms surrounding the pool’s outer edge, and there was no further movement while he watched.
He turned back and continued toward the beach stairs.
What if Heath just wanted some air? A little decompression time.
He’d had a rough day too. Not only would Evan be interrupting, he’d be opening himself up to having to answer for why he’d acted like a teenager challenging the party to play Spin the Bottle.
That was almost enough to send him back into the house, but the tingling pushed him forward.
The silent treatment wasn’t Heath’s style.
If he were out here, he’d at least tell him to fuck off.
No, something was weird, and if he didn’t investigate, his disemboweled corpse couldn’t serve as a warning to the others.
At the top of the stairs, he leaned on the wall and searched for signs of movement in the darkness, half expecting a ghostly apparition to appear hovering atop the water along the rocky shore.
Most of the beach was underwater, so it was hardly the time to be looking for trinkets, but knowing Heath, there was probably some rare urchin you could only find during high tide after a storm.
He descended to the lowest stair that wasn’t being battered by the surf, but saw only sea foam churning between slick, black boulders.
The beach was empty as far as he could tell, and he wasn’t crossing over with the tide in.
That was a recipe for a broken ankle, and even if Heath had gone that way, the incoming tide would’ve wiped away any footprints.
What really worried him was whether it would have also wiped away Heath. The current was strong. It yanked at his calves as the sand beneath his feet shifted and evaporated with each step forward. The deeper he went, the harder it tried to lure him away from the wall.
He stopped when the water swirled up to his waist and he had to brace his feet apart to stay steady. Invisible hands tugged at his hips, beckoning him to go just a little further, and he thought of his mother’s warnings of sea kelpies waiting to swim off with boys who drifted too far from shore.
A sound caught his attention. Like a shuffling. Faint, but distinct enough to stand out from the babbling water. Giant crabs? Zombies? He dug his fingers into the gaps between the concrete bricks and listened, but it didn’t happen again.
“Heath?” he shouted, wondering if anyone else could hear him, then remembered theirs was the most remote villa. What a comforting thought—he could be screaming his head off and no one would know.
That was the final straw he needed to turn around. He edged along the wall, cursing the barnacles that scraped the shit out of his hands, but stopped when he heard the shuffle again. Heard and felt it.
Sand and pebbles dusted him from above. He looked up and spotted Heath standing on top of the wall a few feet away.
He wore only a pair of light-colored shorts, his bare toes curling over the edge of the capstones.
They were the only part of him holding onto anything as he swayed forward and backward, quietly humming something Evan couldn’t identify.
“Heath! The fuck are you doing? Get down before you break your neck.”
This was the guy who’d repeatedly failed to navigate between a mostly stationary raft and the swim platform of a sizeable boat. There was no way he should play balance beam over jagged rocks.
“Hey, you hear me?”
Heath didn’t respond, and gave no sign that he was hearing anything at all. Something was wrong. Creepy and wrong, and that wrongness pushed him to get up there quickly.
“Heath. Do not move. You hear me? Do not fucking move.”
Evan pushed through the water, the backflow knocking him off balance as slippery rocks twisted his footing. It felt like it took forever for the stairs to reappear, and he clambered up to the patio at a half run, his feet skidding on the slick stones.
At the top, he scanned for Heath and saw only darkness and trees illuminated by the moody pool lighting.
Panic pushed him into a sprint. He neared the pool and spotted movement through the fan of palms. Heath took slow, measured steps toward the infinity edge, pausing occasionally to sway with the breeze.
He had maybe two feet before he’d run out of space.
From there, it was a plunge either into the pool or over the wall to the rocks below.
“Heath, stop!” Evan’s voice broke, and he pushed himself faster.
Heath’s next step took him right to the edge, and he teetered, his body shifting from loose and unbothered to stiff and alarmed. The groggy confusion in his voice changed to a yell, and adrenaline kicked Evan into top gear.
Bolting across the top of the wall, he approached Heath at an angle, diving and catching him at hip height with an outstretched arm.
He twisted, dumping Heath backward into the pool as he overshot and crashed into the water after him, catching his entire left side on the abrasive cement of the pool’s edge.
His shoulder and upper arm took the brunt of the impact. He’d dislocated it once in college, and while the pain wasn’t as bad, he couldn’t say he was thrilled to be reliving the experience. At least the bruising would be spectacular. He’d milk that for all it was worth.
“Heath?” he rasped, reaching into the water to pull a sputtering Lennox to the surface.
Heath coughed and spat, pushing his hair out of his face as he stumbled for footing. He looked at Evan with dazed confusion, but he was okay, and Evan’s knees gave out as relief drained the last of his energy.