Chapter 5 #2
The last thing she saw before darkness swallowed her was the man with the Laurel tattoo disappearing through the doorway.
The bucket of rust Blake borrowed from Dan fishtailed.
Blake hadn’t cared if he blew cover; he had to get to Viv before she ended up as another agent gone missing without a clue.
Blake took the last corner too fast, gravel spitting out from under the bald tires.
The lighthouse came into view, perched on the cliff like something dead refusing to fall.
He dialed again and again. “Come on, Viv, pick up.”
Voicemail again.
He slid to the edge of a fence and slammed the car into park next to their jeep. He jumped out, boots crunching over frost. The wind hit like knives—salt, cold, and wrong.
His hand went to his weapon. He moved fast, low, scanning the area as he approached the bent chain-link fence. The lock hung broken.
His stomach dropped. She’d gone in.
“Damn it, Viv.”
The door to the lighthouse gaped open, mist curling through the gap like smoke. He hesitated just long enough to check for footprints. Two sets. One small, one larger. The larger set overlapped hers near the doorframe.
He stepped inside, gun up, flashlight beam slicing through the gloom. The interior reeked of fuel and old salt. Dust hung in the air like ash. Inside carried a bone-deep chill.
“Vivian?” he called. His voice echoed up the curved walls and died fast.
No answer.
He moved deeper, sweeping the beam across the floor—footprints, drag marks, scuffed metal. His light landed on the thermos near a workbench, then the faint shimmer of a phone lying in the dirt. Cracked screen. Her phone.
“Viv!”
He dropped to one knee, checking the display. Black. Dead. The edges were damp, a faint smear of something red across the corner.
He pushed to his feet and bolted to the stairs, boots clanging against the iron steps. “Vivian! Answer me!”
A sound answered—a soft groan. Faint. Above.
He scanned upward with the light. Two spirals up a hand hung, tangled in a twisted sprawl of metal.
He moved, gun ready, one curve closer.
The world shrank to that single sight—her motionless form, her hair matted with dust and streaks of white from the shattered plaster, her arm bent awkwardly at her side.
Blake took the steps three at a time, landing hard beside her. Hands shaking, he reached for her wrist.
Pulse. Faint.
Relief hit like a punch.
“Viv. Come on.” His voice broke, rougher than he wanted. “Talk to me.”
She stirred, a low moan escaping her. Her eyelashes fluttered, slow, disoriented.
“Blake?” Her voice was paper-thin.
“Yeah. I got you.”
He checked her pupils, then scanned for injuries. A bruise already bloomed on her cheek, dark against her pale skin. A cut at her temple. He brushed a thumb over her hand—it was trembling.
“What happened?” he asked.
Her lips parted, the words dragging out. “Someone… in here. Pushed me. Boots. Big. Gray. There—was something… upstairs.”
She drew in a breath, thin and shaky, and pushed to sit up. Blake’s hand hovered at her back, steadying her without touching—as if he were fighting the urge.
She pushed to rise, but her arm gave out, and she slumped against the wall.
He caught her before she slid further, steadying her with a hand on her shoulder. “Easy. You’re hurt.”
Vivian shook her head weakly. “No. Go. I dropped it… a bullet casing. I had it.”
He hesitated only a heartbeat before lowering her back against the wall. Her head lolled to the side, exhaustion pulling at her features.
He holstered his gun and stripped off his jacket, tucking it under her head. “I’ll get you help then come back.” He slid his arm beneath her, but she brushed his wrist, then squeezed it.
“No.” She swallowed hard as if it were painful, and he worried about internal bruising or damage. “Get the evidence. Go.”
He hesitated. Really hesitated. He’d rather stay with her than chase the lead—and that truth scared him.
Blake stood knowing she was right and he needed to find that bullet casing.
The beam of his flashlight cut through the haze of dust that still swirled down the stairwell.
He swept the light at the bottom, but nothing reflected, so he took the stairs two at a time, hurrying so he could get back to her quick.
At the top landing, he scanned the floor. The cracked concrete was scorched in one place, blackened around a small circle drawn in what looked like red grease pencil. But nothing else. No shell casing. No evidence bag.
Just empty space.
Blake crouched, sweeping the light across the floor. A smear of dust trailed toward the far wall—a drag mark, faint but deliberate. Someone had been here. Someone had taken whatever Vivian found.
He stood, scanned the floor one last time, then turned and bounded back down the stairs.
Vivian still sat slumped against the wall, her eyes half-open, the edges of pain and adrenaline warring in her face.
His relief hit sharp, unguarded—just for a heartbeat. Enough for her to see the depth of it.
“Find it?” she asked, her voice hoarse.
He crouched beside her, shaking his head. “No. It’s gone.”
Her expression flickered—shock, then something colder. “He took it.”
“Yeah.” He checked the bruising along her cheek, his jaw working.
He slipped an arm beneath her shoulders, lifting her carefully. She hissed in pain but didn’t fight him this time.
For a long beat, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the wind pressing against the lighthouse walls and the slow, uneven drag of her breathing.
A door slammed outside, faint but distinct.
Blake’s head snapped toward the entrance. He lowered Vic to the floor and drew his weapon again, pulse spiking back to combat rhythm.
“Stay here,” he said, though he knew she couldn’t go anywhere.
“Blake—”
He hit the doorway in seconds, stepping into the freezing air. The fog had thickened into near-whiteout, but a sound carried through it—a car door shutting, an engine roaring to life.
He sprinted to the road. Through the haze, twin taillights flared, red bleeding through gray, already moving away fast.
He raised his gun, useless at this distance, and lowered it with a curse.
The SUV vanished around the curve.
Blake stood there for a long second, breath burning his chest, the cold biting through sweat-soaked skin.
Whoever was in that SUV had been here. Had known she’d come. And had nearly killed her for it.
He hiked back to the lighthouse full-speed, slipping on icy rocks. The door swung open and slammed closed in the wind.
He drew closer and saw writing on the outside. The door opened, then swung closed again, bouncing off the cement wall.
In red grease pencil, scribbled like a child on the back of the rotted wood door, it read.
NEXT TIME, SHE WON’T GET UP.