Episode 220
DON’T FEAR THE REAPER
Heather
Ten Years Earlier…
He falls asleep like he always does—after two fingers of whiskey and a disgusting belch.
I wait.
I sit on the edge of my bed, staring at the hallway, listening to the sound of his breathing drift into something heavy and slow. I know the rhythm. I’ve memorized it over the years. In through his nose, out through his mouth. The soft hitch when he turns on his side. The low grunt when he settles.
That’s when I move.
My bare feet make no sound on the floor. I’ve practiced this a hundred times in my head—where to step, how to hold my breath, what creaks in the floorboards to avoid. I pass the photographs on the wall. Pictures of me as a kid, smiling like an idiot.
I grip the handle of the fire poker by the hearth. It’s cold. Heavy.
Deadly if wielded correctly.
The bedroom door is ajar.
It always is. He doesn’t fear me. He thinks he controls me.
He can think again.
I push the door open. Just a little.
He’s sprawled on his back, mouth open, the blanket tangled around his legs.
Asleep, he passes for human.
Vulnerable.
Nothing like the bastard who whispered twisted lullabies in the dark and told me to smile for the neighbors.
He looks old now. Weak. Smaller than he used to.
But I’m not small anymore.
I step closer, close enough to hear the faint rattle in his lungs. I tighten my fingers around the iron.
One more second.
One more breath.
He shifts.
And I strike like a viper, uncoiling and snapping forward.
I’m fast. I’m silent. I’m deadly.
The first strike lands with a sickening crack. The sound is louder than I expect.
His body jerks, but he doesn’t scream.
I don’t give him the chance. The second hit lands square across his temple.
The third…
The third is just for good measure.
He’s still.
Still.
Blood flows from his wounds. I wanted to see it gush out of him. I’m kind of disappointed at the slow meandering.
I drop the poker and stare at him.
No regrets.
No fucking regrets.
I walk to the sink and rinse the blood from my hands. It slides off in swirls, pink at first and then clear. Like it never touched me at all.
I change clothes, stuffing the bloodstained ones into a plastic trash bag. I’ll dispose of them later, along with the poker. I’ve been careful not to leave any fingerprints in his room. Nothing to incriminate me.
Besides, I’ll be long gone with a new name and look by the time anyone finds him.
I don’t take anything else with me except a duffel bag and the new ID.
The tattoo on my shoulder is new and still sore.
A viper, ready to strike.
That’s what I am.
I’ll never tell anyone what the tattoo signifies. Not even the people who swear they won’t leave if I do.
Because they always do.
I already survived one man who promised to protect me.
I don’t need to survive another.
Present Day…
“That’s a great tattoo,” Sienna says.
“Thanks.” I offer nothing more.
Sienna just toasted to “surviving the storm.”
I’ve already survived the ultimate storm. Whatever this island and these men have in store for me? Or what June or Misty may have up their sleeves?
It’s nothing.
I’ve been to hell and back. Nothing will surprise me.
The words I said to Sebastian mere days ago echo in my mind again.
I’m an open book, Sebastian. Except for that tattoo.
I don’t talk about it. So don’t ever ask me about it again.
That’s all I’m going to say on the matter.
I don’t need to hear an apology, or an “I didn’t know,” or a “You can tell me anything, baby, and I’ll understand.
” Because trust me. You won’t understand.
It wasn’t a complete lie. I am an open book.
Correction—Heather Hill is an open book.
But Heather Hill is an illusion.
Sienna doesn’t press me about the tattoo.
Good.
Sienna eyes the French doors leading to the mansion. “I wonder who’s slamming doors in there?”
“Who fucking knows?” I finish my drink. “I could use a swim. Want to join me?”
She doesn’t respond right away. Then, “You know what? Yeah. Pool or ocean?”
“Who gives a shit?”
She laughs. “You’re right. Let’s just get some distance between us and this house.”
We go upstairs—not running into anyone other than staff, thank God—and change into our suits.
Sienna wears a gold tankini, and I choose a blood-red bikini that clashes with my black and blue hair. But it feels right. I’m in a red mood.
We head outside—this time narrowly avoiding Ariel, Jazz, and Cheryl who are talking nonstop about tomorrow’s festivities—and walk toward the pool house.
The air is heavy with salt and tension, and for a split second I consider walking down the concrete pathway and straight into the ocean, swimming until I hit Jamaica.
Not that I want to leave the island, but I’d just as soon miss whatever’s brewing. I’m not afraid of a storm, but that doesn’t mean I want to walk headfirst into one.
Instead, I follow Sienna to the pool area, shed my suit so I’m buck naked, and dive right in.
The water wraps around me and steals the air from my lungs. It drowns out everything else. No voices, no memories, no footsteps echoing down a hallway that no longer exists. Just the feeling of weightlessness, as if for once, I’m not carrying anything. Not guilt. Not fear. Not the past.
Just me. Alone, submerged, unbothered.
Free.
I swim a few laps and then pull myself out and sit on the edge.
Sienna swims over and props her arms on the tile, looking toward the house.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Just thinking.”
“Dangerous habit.”
“Yeah.” She glances over her shoulder at me. “Do you ever think about what you’ll do when this is all over?”
I blink. “Define all.”
She shrugs. “The island. The games. The men. When we’re back in the real world. If we even get back.” She sighs. “If you go back alone.”
My answer is automatic. “I don’t think that far ahead.”
But that’s a lie.
Because when I close my eyes at night, sometimes I do think about what happens next. What happens if one of them chooses me.
If I let him choose me.
Sienna doesn’t push, just tilts her head back and sighs. “Sometimes I think none of us are going to leave this place the same.”
I shrug. “That’s not necessarily a bad thing.”
She chuckles but it doesn’t quite make it to her eyes. “You’re kind of scary, you know that?”
“Thanks.”
She laughs again, but there’s a nervous edge to it. I slide back into the water before she can say anything else.