The ferry’s iron ramp clangs shut, a final, hollow note that echoes off the granite cliffs of Holloway Island. Tamsen grips Wrenn’s hand, the small girl’s mitten a damp wool knot against her palm. Salt spray bites at the chapped skin of Tamsen’s cheekbones as the boat reverses, its churning wake the only thing separating them from the mainland they left behind. Behind them, the lighthouse stands like a jagged bone against the violet bruise of the winter twilight.
Ten years of running have narrowed down to this spit of rock and spruce. Tamsen adjusts the heavy iron key at her hip, its weight a promise of four walls and a lock. The island feels impossibly silent, save for the rhythmic slap of the tide against the pilings. Beside her, Wrenn pulls her stuffed rabbit closer, her sea-grey eyes fixed on the dense wall of pine. We’re safe now, Tamsen tells herself, though the back of her neck prickles with the old, familiar heat of being watched.
The ferry’s spotlight sweeps the dark dock, illuminating the tall silhouette of a man stepping out of the treeline.
