Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 81887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
“Last seen at Ms. Waters’s party,” Viktor says. “We’re checking everywhere he might have been.”
Mrs. Fletcher sighs like this is all a terrible inconvenience. “Well, you can look around outside, I suppose, but I’ll need to accompany anyone entering the house proper. The Waters family values their privacy, as I’m sure you understand.”
Viktor stands, nodding slightly. “We’ll continue our search of the grounds, then. With your permission, Ms. Waters?”
Like he’s giving me a choice.
“That’s fine,” I say.
After they leave, Mrs. Fletcher immediately starts making a fresh pot of tea, the clink of china more aggressive than necessary.
“The nerve of those men,” she mutters. “Your father would have a fit if he knew.”
“Thank you for stepping in.” I wrap my sweater tighter around me, suddenly cold despite the kitchen’s warmth. “I wasn’t sure how much longer I could answer questions.”
“Vultures, the lot of them.” She sets a steaming cup in front of me. “Now, tell me about this party. I leave for one weekend and come back to search parties and interrogations.”
I recite the story again, this version slightly more candid since she wasn’t here. The party, the crowd getting out of hand, me going to bed early—all technically true, just minus the part about killing someone.
Through the kitchen window, I can see men with dogs moving methodically across the lawn toward the garden. Toward the maze. My heart rate picks up.
“Don’t worry about them trampling the flowers,” Mrs. Fletcher says, mistaking my concern. “That Ricci boy will fix whatever they destroy. Though heaven knows that maze is more trouble than it’s worth.”
I turn to her, grateful for the distraction. “What do you mean?”
“That maze has been nothing but a headache for years. Your grandmother’s pride and joy, but the upkeep is ridiculous.” She starts unpacking groceries with sharp movements. “And during certain... events, it becomes a nuisance.”
“Events?”
“The Hunt.” She practically spits the word. “Every year, all those strangers and heathens running through the property like animals. No respect for privacy or decent behavior.”
I sit up straighter.
“A disgraceful tradition. Started with the original settlers, they say.” Mrs. Fletcher’s mouth tightens. “They sign contracts beforehand. It’s all arranged through that club. The women consent to be... pursued. The men wear these bone masks, like stags. They whistle when they’re coming—this eerie melody you can hear through the trees.” Her voice drops. “Once it starts, there’s no stopping. When the man catches the woman...” Mrs. Fletcher scoffs. “The next morning, these elaborate baskets appear on their porches. Expensive jewelry, cash, wine. The wealthy men try to outdo each other with their generosity. As if that makes it civilized.” She slams a cabinet door. “Some claim it’s all consensual fun, island tradition dating back generations. Others say it’s just an excuse for debauchery.”
My mouth goes dry. “And this happens in our maze?” I don’t remember ever seeing it happen on our property when I was young. I can’t imagine my mother, and most definitely not my father allowing it to happen.
“Yeah well… this house is vacant most of the time minus the bare staff. So… it’s become a perfect playground. After the Harvest Moon, usually, but I’ve heard rumors they’re starting early this year. Summer equinox.” She resumes unpacking groceries. “Your father should sell this place. It’s not good for your health, all this damp and that ridiculous club they opened in town. Trading on the island’s worst impulses, calling it ‘tradition’ or ‘culture’.” She slams a can of soup onto the counter. “As if running half-naked through the night is culture.”
I nod, not trusting myself to respond without revealing I already know all about The Hunt, The Vault, or the fact that now I’m scared even more about the bloody body being found by some masked man and his white-gowned prey. If this is true, people will be everywhere, potentially disturbing Liam’s grave.
“I think I need to lie down,” I say, rubbing my temples. “It’s been a long day.”
Mrs. Fletcher’s expression softens immediately. “Of course, dear. I’ll fix something light for dinner. You rest.”
I retreat to my room, where I pace for the next few hours, too anxious to rest. Outside my window, the search parties gradually disperse as dusk approaches. I can bet money they’ll be back tomorrow, probably with more men and equipment.
Mrs. Fletcher calls me down for dinner—a simple soup and fresh bread. She fills the meal with island gossip, carefully avoiding any more talk of The Hunt or Liam’s disappearance. I nod at the right moments, but my mind is elsewhere.
After dinner, I escape to my room again, claiming fatigue. It’s not entirely a lie. The stress of Viktor’s questioning has worn me out. But as soon as I close my door, I pull out my phone.
I text Damiano first: Are the search parties gone?
His reply comes quickly: For now. Stay in the house.