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)
“They’re perfect,” I say, already picturing them displayed around the great room. “I’ll take five… no, wait… ten. And I need red bulbs, too. Lots of them.”
She nods, pulling out a wooden crate filled with various sizes of red lightbulbs. “You should know that just displaying Hunt items sends a message on this island.”
“That’s exactly what I want.” I hand over my credit card. “To send a message.”
She starts wrapping the masks carefully in brown paper. “And what message is that, exactly?”
“That I’m not my father’s daughter. Not anymore.”
She makes a noncommittal sound. “Just be careful what you’re inviting, girl.”
“That’s the point,” I say with more confidence than I feel. “I’m done being careful.”
I spend the afternoon exploring town, stopping at the small grocery to pick up additional party supplies. The cashier—Meredith, according to her nametag—almost drops the bottle of tonic water when I tell her there’s a party at Windward tomorrow.
“The Waters place? For real?” Her eyes are huge. “Nobody ever gets to go in there!”
“Well, now’s your chance. Nine o’clock. Hunt theme. It’s gonna be wild.”
“The Hunt? At your house?” She leans across the counter. “No way.”
“Yep. Tomorrow night. Tell your friends.”
“Oh my god, this is gonna be insane.” She grins. “Everyone’s gonna lose their minds.”
“That’s the plan,” I say, grabbing my bags. “See you there.”
Back at Windward, I throw myself into preparations with an energy I haven’t felt in months. The basement is full of treasures—strings of garden lights, paper lanterns, even an ancient sound system that still works when dusted off. Mrs. Fletcher watches my whirlwind activity with obvious concern but says nothing beyond reminding me not to overexert myself. She also mentions she has numbers for caterers and event planners, but I ignore her because I’m enjoying doing this myself.
By evening, I’ve set up the great room and terrace for tomorrow’s party. I’m completely wiped out, but it’s a good kind of tired—from doing something productive instead of being sick. But looking around, I realize my decorations look too... nice. Too pretty. Paper lanterns and fairy lights aren’t exactly screaming “The Hunt” theme.
The bag from Mooncrow sits unopened on the couch. I pull out one of the masks, feeling its weight in my hands. The bone is cool and surprisingly heavy, the antlers curving up in sharp points. I place it on the mantel above the fireplace, and immediately the room feels different—darker, more dangerous.
“This isn’t working,” I mutter to myself. The space still looks too prim, too Waters. I need red lights everywhere. I need tribal drums playing instead of classical music. I need drinks that make people forget their inhibitions.
I need to transform this place into something animalistic.
I need this party to be unforgettable.
“Mrs. Fletcher!” I call out. “Can I get those numbers you mentioned earlier, please? For the caterers and DJ? And... what do you know about The Hunt?”
She freezes, her expression shifting from helpful to horrified. “Where did you hear about that?”
“I’ve always known about it,” I say with a shrug. “Everyone does.”
“That’s not a suitable topic for a young lady,” she says firmly. “Especially not a Waters. Those... activities... are for a different sort of island resident.”
“It was just a question,” I lie. “I was curious.”
“Well, curiosity about such things isn’t appropriate,” she says primly. “Your father would never approve of even discussing it.”
Perfect. Exactly the reaction I was hoping for. But I decide to drop the subject because I don’t want to stroke out the poor woman by making her talk about it more.
After dinner, I text Dad some BS about “feeling stronger” and “enjoying the island air.” No mention of my birthday or the party I’m planning. He responds with his typical clinical checklist of questions about my symptoms and a reminder to take my meds on schedule.
In bed, I stare at the ceiling, my mind racing with thoughts about tomorrow. For years, I’ve been going through the motions, my entire existence reduced to treatment schedules and test results. But here, away from Seattle and all the medical crap, something feels different. Freedom, maybe. But definitely alive.
Tomorrow, I turn twenty-eight—a birthday nobody bothered to remember. Instead of feeling sorry for myself, I’m doing something totally reckless. Inviting strangers into my family’s house. Turning my father’s pristine home into a scene from some pagan ritual-inspired bacchanal. Potentially trashing the place Dad keeps in museum-perfect condition.
Mom would have considered this hilarious. Dad will have a coronary. Maybe that’s exactly why it feels so right.
I’m playing with fire, and I know it, but I feel the heat of it on my skin, and I can’t bring myself to pull away.
I fall asleep wondering if Flint will show up, if Damiano might appear from nowhere, and what happens when people from opposite sides of this island end up in the same room. For the first time in forever, I’m actually excited about tomorrow.