Chapter 7 Storm Watch
Storm Watch
Emma almost missed it.
The folded note lay half-hidden beneath the edge of her bungalow door, the corner lifting and settling with the morning breeze. She’d been mentally rehearsing her interview questions for the afternoon, already three hours ahead, as she fished her keys from her tote bag.
She picked it up, assuming it was a maintenance notice or a misplaced staff memo that someone had slipped under the wrong door.
The paper was cheap—standard printer stock, nothing distinctive. No envelope. One single, precise fold.
She opened it.
Emma Vann—
You shouldn’t be here.
This island isn’t yours.
I know where you work.
I know where you sleep.
You are not safe.
She read it twice.
The words were printed. Centered. Clean. Deliberate. Large enough that there was no mistaking the message.
Not rushed. Not sloppy. Intentional.
Emma frowned.
Dramatic. Anonymous. Corporate passive-aggressive behavior taken to an extreme.
She refolded the paper and dropped it into her bag, shifting her focus back to the day ahead. She had more important things to worry about.
Like a hurricane on the horizon.
By mid-morning, she’d almost forgotten about it.
Morgan appeared in her office doorway around ten, holding two iced coffees and wearing a harried expression that meant she’d already dealt with at least three minor crises before breakfast.
“I’ve got good news and bad news,” she announced. “Good news: Javier arrived this morning. Turns out what he forgot was his phone charger, and he had a dead battery when his rental didn’t start. Had to walk out.”
Emma sighed in relief. Simple explanation.
“Bad news: vendor called,” Morgan said, setting one on Emma’s desk. “They’re pushing back the linen delivery again.”
Emma sighed. “How far?”
“Three days. Which puts us—”
“Dangerously close to opening week.” Emma made a note.
“I’ll call them. We might need a backup supplier.
” She pushed her chair back, stood, and crossed to the break center to get her tote.
“Let me grab my vendor notes.” She unzipped it and pulled out a folder.
Something tumbled loose with it—a folded sheet drifted to the floor.
Morgan bent. “I’ve got it.” She unfolded it. Emma expected a laugh. Maybe an eye roll.
Instead, Morgan stilled. Color drained from her face.
“Emma… what is this?”
“Just a prank note.” Emma flicked a quick glance over. “I found it under my door this morning.”
Morgan’s head snapped up. “You found this under your door?”
Emma frowned. “Yes.”
“When?”
“Early this morning, around six-thirty. Why?”
Morgan looked back down at the note, reading it again—more slowly this time.
Her fingers tightened on the paper.
“Emma, this isn’t a joke.”
“I know it’s weird, but it’s probably—”
“No,” Morgan shook her head, already backing away from that explanation. “No, this—this is wrong.”
Emma straightened.
“What do you mean, wrong?”
Morgan didn’t answer immediately. Her eyes flicked toward the door. The hallway beyond. Back to Emma.
“Security needs to see this.” Her voice was lower, tighter.
Emma blinked. “Morgan, it’s a piece of paper.”
“It’s a threat.” Morgan met her eyes—and this time there was no mistaking the fear in her eyes.
“You need to show this to Zach.”
“That feels like overkill—”
“Emma,” Morgan stepped closer, voice firm. “Please.”
The word didn’t sound casual. It sounded urgent.
Emma hesitated.
Morgan had been on this island longer. Long enough to identify when something crossed from inconvenient… to dangerous.
“Fine,” Emma gave in. “I’ll mention it.”
Morgan didn’t move right away. She stared at the note one more time before refolding it.
“You should keep that,” she murmured. “Zach will want to see it.”
Emma gave a small, dismissive shrug and turned back to her desk as Morgan returned to her own, but the energy in the room had shifted. Morgan’s fingers slid over her tablet. Her attention split—half on her screen, half on the door.
Zach arrived within fifteen minutes.
Emma was in the middle of reviewing résumés when the office door opened. No knock. Just the quiet arrival of someone who didn’t ask permission.
She looked up, already knowing who it would be.
Zach filled her doorway like he filled every space—economically, efficiently, and with an alertness that suggested he’d cataloged every exit and potential threat before she’d even registered his presence.
His storm gray eyes skimmed over her, then shifted to Morgan, who stood near the filing cabinet looking guilty.
“Out,” he said. It wasn’t harsh, but it wasn’t a request either.
Morgan handed the paper to him and slipped out without another word.
Zach closed the door behind her with a soft click, glanced over the note, then placed it—her note—on Emma’s desk. He pulled out his phone and snapped a quick photo, checking it once.
Emma narrowed her eyes and frowned at Zach. “Morgan told you.”
“Morgan did the right thing.”
“Morgan overreacted.”
He ignored that, slipping his phone back into his pocket. “Where did you find this?” His voice was level, professional. The same tone he probably used to interrogate suspects or brief his team. Emma ground her teeth together.
“Under my door this morning.”
“What time?”
“Around 6:30.”
“Anyone else see it?”
“Morgan. Now you.”
Zach picked up the note, studying it with quiet, focused intensity. “The print is recent.”
Emma frowned. “How do you know?”
“The toner’s still fresh.” He studied the note for another moment. “Threats like this aren’t about the words.”
She crossed her arms. “Then what are they about?”
“Control.” He folded the paper carefully and slipped it into his chest pocket.
The word settled heavily on her shoulders. “Wait. I need a copy of that.”
Zach didn't even blink. “You'll have one.” His tone sharpened. “That's not the problem. Someone wanted you to know they can reach you.”
A shiver ran down Emma’s spine.
“Who has access to your bungalow?”
Emma sighed. “Housekeeping. Maintenance. Probably half the staff if they wanted it.” She leaned back in her chair. “It’s a resort, Zach. Not a maximum-security prison.”
His jaw tightened. “That’s about to change.”
“Excuse me?”
He tapped the note. “I’ll run prints, check the security footage from last night. And I’m increasing patrols in your sector.”
“That seems—”
“Standard protocol.”
“—like overkill,” Emma finished. “It’s a piece of paper. A joke.”
“It’s a warning. People who leave anonymous threats under someone’s door rarely mean it as a joke.” Zach’s eyes locked onto hers, and she saw something shift in them—something colder, more serious. “This isn’t random, Emma. Someone came to your door. Specifically.”
Emma didn’t know what to believe. The note was unsettling, yes. But jumping to worst-case scenarios seemed premature.
“I think it’s most likely nothing,” she said finally. “Treating it like a five-alarm emergency is only going to create panic.”
Zach studied her for a long moment before moving to the window, checking the sight lines with the automatic efficiency of someone who’d done it a thousand times.
“Lena told you,” he said. “About what happened in Florida.”
It wasn’t a question.
“She mentioned there were some issues,” Emma tilted her head. “That things got complicated when she and David met. Her stalker.”
“Complicated,” Zach’s tone was flat. “That’s one word for it.”
“She didn’t give me details.”
“Good.” He turned from the window. “You don't need the details. You know enough to know this isn't just a hypothetical.”
Emma felt her irritation sharpen. “Don’t I? If there’s something I should know—”
“This isn’t about before.” His voice cut through hers cleanly. “This is about now. About the fact that someone left a threat at your door, and you’re treating it like junk mail.”
“Because it might be!”
“It’s not.”
The certainty of his statement stopped her.
Zach crossed to her desk in three strides, bracing his hands on the surface and leaning forward. It was an intimidating stance—utterly focused—but not a threat.
“Someone is watching you, Emma. Someone knows your schedule. Your routines. Where you sleep.” His voice stayed level, but steel-hard. “That’s not random. That’s targeted.”
Emma forced herself to hold his gaze, even though her heart drummed in her chest. “You don’t know that.”
“I know people. I know threats. I know when someone is being set up as a target.” He straightened. “You’re relocating. Effective immediately.”
She blinked. “What?”
“Until we identify the source of this, you’re moving to more secure housing.”
A laugh escaped her throat before she could stop it. “I am not moving out of my bungalow because of a childish note.”
“You are if security determines the risk is real.”
The words landed like stones.
Emma rose, matching his stance. “You are not in charge of my housing arrangements, Zach.”
“I’m in charge of your safety.”
“No.” Emma fought to keep her voice calm, professional. “You’re in charge of resort security. Not my personal life.”
“Your personal life became my jurisdiction the moment someone threatened the our HR Director on resort property.” Zach’s expression didn’t change. “I’m not asking. You relocate—or I relocate you.”
They stared at each other across the desk. Emma stifled the ridiculous urge to laugh at the absurdity. She was a grown woman being told to pack her bags over a two-sentence note that was someone’s sick idea of a joke.
Zach’s face showed no humor. No flexibility. Just absolute, immovable conviction.
“This is insane,” Emma said. “I’m not hiding.”
Zach didn’t react. “Then I’ll adjust accordingly.”
She frowned. “What does that mean?”
“It means I’ll be close enough to intervene.” He pulled out his phone, typing faster than anyone with his size hands should be able to. “I’m assigning a security detail to your bungalow tonight.”
“A detail?” Emma felt her control slipping, unease coiling in her chest. “As in… guards? Outside my door?”
“Trained personnel who will make sure you don't receive any more notes.”
“Zach—”
“This isn’t negotiable, Emma.”
His tone was still level, still professional, but there was something underneath it now, something that hinted at why this man had the responsibility of protecting an entire resort corporation.
He would do what he deemed necessary. With or without her cooperation.
“Your job is to protect the resort. Not micromanage my life.”
“Your life is part of the resort.” Her phone pinged and Zach pocketed his phone. “You’re a senior staff member, Emma. You have access to sensitive hiring information, personnel files, security protocols. If someone is targeting you, it may not be about you. It may be about what you represent.”
That… actually made sense.
Emma hated that it made sense.
“Fine,” she said slowly. “Run your prints. Check your cameras. But I’m not relocating, and I don’t need a security detail.”
“You’re getting one anyway.”
“Zach—”
“Argue all you want.” He moved toward the door. “It won’t change the outcome.” He paused with his hand on the handle, glancing back at her. “For what it’s worth,” he said quietly, “I hope you’re right.”
Emma shook her head. “About what?”
“That this is nothing.” His gaze held hers for a beat longer than necessary. “Because if it isn’t…”
Something in his voice made Emma’s retort die in her throat.
“In my experience,” Zach resumed after a moment. “People who hope for the best usually end up planning funerals.”
Then he was gone.
Emma stood alone in her office, staring at the closed door.
She picked up her phone and pulled up the image of the note Zach sent her. Her fingers trembled as she re-read the words for the third time that day.
You shouldn’t be here.
This island isn’t yours.
I know where you work.
I know where you sleep.
You are not safe.
They hadn’t changed, but somehow they landed heavier now. Like they meant more than she’d first assumed.
Emma’s analytical mind ran through possibilities: disgruntled applicant, misdirected anger, random troublemaker. All plausible. None of them felt right.
Zach’s voice echoed in her head.
Someone knows where you live.
Someone came to your door.
She sat back down at her desk, glancing at the door. At the shadows in the corners of the room.
And wondered… who on the island wanted her gone.