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“No one’s gone missing on Mariners.” Determined to stop her imagination, she returned the bag to its hiding place. Then, when she got back on her computer, she changed her search parameters yet again. She was going to forget about what she’d found in that closet and satisfy a far milder curiosity: Who was Bo Broussard?
She no longer entertained the idea thathemight have something to do with the items in that duffel bag. He’d made no move to harm her even though the storm would’ve given him the perfect cover. And she felt certain that, were it his, he would’ve stored it at his own place, where he could reach it whenever he wanted to. Putting that bag in the cottage meant he’d have to worry about the family finding it or getting in the way when he wanted to retrieve it.
There were quite a few Bo Broussards on the internet. But none of them seemed to be the man she’d met. She couldn’t find him on social media, either.
Picking up her phone, she eyed the contact record she’d created when he gave her his information. Then she checked the clock. It was six ten. It’d been two and a half hours since he’d come over to help her.
She wondered what he was doing, if he had food and water, if he still had a working flashlight, if he regretted not accepting the lantern she’d offered him. And just in case he wouldn’t reach out even if he needed something, she sent him a message:
It’s Ismay—at the cottage. You doing okay over there?
4
Bo had fallen asleep in his chair, but the sound of breaking glass and creaking timbers woke him instantly. Convinced he was still in prison and the siren had gone off because a fight had just broken out in the yard, he brought his head up quickly and his fists, too.
There was no human adversary. But when he sprang to his feet, he dropped his phone and his book, and the book landed on his foot.
“Son of a bitch!” he yelled, shocked that something falling such a short distance could cause so much pain. He didn’t have time to focus on it, though. He wasn’t in prison, fighting off a shank to the throat. He was in his small cabin on Mariners, looking at the sky and feeling the wind and rain hit him almost as hard as if he were standing outside.
“What the hell?” He blinked. Another tree had gone down, only this one hadn’t fallen as propitiously as the one that’d broken the fence surrounding the garden. This tree had crashed through his roof and was lying on top of the house. Because he had only the dying embers of the fire to help him see, it took a moment to realize the extent of the damage. But soon he could make out the wet dripping branches reaching down toward him. Apparently, the wind had only grown stronger since he’d fallen asleep.
He searched where he’d been sitting for his flashlight. It’d rolled off his lap and into the crack between the cushion and frame. He found it with the beam angled into the fabric. But even once he turned it around, it didn’t show him much. The light was so dim it’d almost gone out. He needed to replace the batteries, figure out how to get the tree off his house, and patch the hole it’d made before he was facing significant water damage.
But the second that thought went through his mind, he realized he wouldn’t be able to do anything until the storm was over. He’d be a fool to even try.
Afraid the frame of the house would give way, and he’d be looking at an even more dangerous problem, he picked up his phone and saw a text he’d missed while sleeping. The woman staying in the cottage had messaged him.
You doing okay over there?
That text had come in three hours ago. And then, more recently, he’d received another message from her.Hey, you haven’t answered me. Can you just confirm that you’re okay?
And just a few minutes ago:I’m really getting worried.
What should he say in return? That hewasn’tokay? That a tree had just taken out part of his house?
She’d think he expected her to let him stay in the cottage, and he knew Annabelle and Mort would not like that, never mind Remy. He didn’t like the idea, either. What if she accused him of doing something he didn’t do, something inappropriate, and he had no way to defend himself?
He was an ex-con. If a question like that ever arose, his conviction and the fact that he’d lied about his past would make him look guilty even if he was innocent.
He wouldn’t risk returning to prison. He didn’t really know Ismay Chalmers, would be a fool to trust her.
After carefully navigating around the tree and the chunks of wood, Sheetrock, and roofing that were now on the floor, he made it to the kitchen and replaced the batteries in his flashlight before responding.Sorry, fell asleep.He peered around the corner at the hole where the rain was pouring in before adding,I’m fine, and sent the message.
He’d figure out something to survive the night, he told himself—hang out in a back bedroom and hope the rest of the house didn’t go down, he supposed. He didn’t have any better option.
He was once again edging around the tree so he could make it down the hall when he heard someone banging on the door. At first, he thought it was the storm knocking things around outside. But then he heard his name.
“Bo! Bo Broussard, are you in there?”Bam, bam, bam.“Are you hurt? Should I break a window?”
“Oh, my God,” he said. “She’s at my door!”
Ismay watched Bo out of the corner of her eye. She’d insisted he leave his cabin and come to the cottage with her, but she could tell he wasn’t happy about it. Now he was sitting at the kitchen table with a blanket around his shoulders, soaked to the skin, while she made coffee.
She wasn’t much drier. She’d borrowed a coat from Annabelle’s closet before making the harrowing trek to his place. When she’d packed for Mariners, she’d been expecting a mild spring and part of summer on the beach and brought only a lightweight jacket. But she hadn’t taken a hat or gloves or boots, and she definitely should have.
“I can’t believe you went out in this mess,” he muttered as he shot a disgruntled look at the storm ravaging the island outside the window.
She had a towel draped around her shoulders, which she used as she moved around the kitchen to dry the water dripping from her hair. “Would you have preferred I didn’t?”
