?
Back in my bed, just before I turn off the lamp, I note a few water stains on the ceiling. I’ll need to check the roof boots to make sure they’re adequately caulked. It’s time to start getting the cottage and tower repaired for the summer tourist season. That will be good. At least I’ll be busy.
This winter was harsh and there was nothing to do. While I am indeed hiding out, it fucking sucked being stuck inside most of the time because of the weather.
I start to get drowsy. Even though I don’t want my attention to go there, it happens anyway.
Seven months ago was my death day.
I became Kyle Harding.
I started a new life.
I’m in hiding, waiting for the day that I might be able to resume my life again.
Turning my head slightly to the left, I locate the small bedside lamp and reach out to turn it off. When the room is plunged into darkness, I stare upward until my eyes grow heavy and my breathing turns slow.
The last thing I think about before I go to sleep is the look in Kayla’s eyes when I suggested she use the knives on Maggie again, and I know, without a doubt, I’ll be dreaming of that again.
That’s okay.
I consider it to be a part of my penance.
CHAPTER 2
Jane
Leaning my stomach against the counter’s edge, I stare through the open plantation shutters as I sip my coffee. It should be a crime for a man to look that good. No, actually a sin. It should be a sin to look that good, and it should be addressed in the Bible. Or maybe it is, because I’m pretty sure the way I’m coveting my neighbor has probably been written about a time or two.
It’s relatively mild for the middle of May in Misty Harbor, and I saw the forecast is actually going to hit the upper sixties today. It will still dip back down to the forties tonight, but, for now, I’m loving this weather. It means my window is open to let in the spring breeze, my shutters are thrown wide, and my neighbor across the private lane that separates our properties has his shirt off as he power washes the light tower.
It’s a truly marvelous day.
Inhaling deep, I take in the smell of sea spray and the viburnum that’s started to bloom under my kitchen window, and my lips curve upward. I love spring so much—the way it represents renewal and hope. The winter this past year in Misty Harbor was brutal, but it’s over now. I’m looking forward to spending as much time outdoors as my schedule will allow.
My little cottage sits on the west side of Cranberry Lane, just across the dusty road from my new neighbor, a man I’ve yet to meet in person even though he’s been here a few months. There’d been a rumor that the town council was looking to replace old man Boggs as the keeper of the Gray Birch Lighthouse, as he’d let the tower and attached caretaker’s cottage fall into horrible disrepair. In addition, the council wanted to open the lighthouse up for tourists in the summer as a means to bring in a little bit of income into our small town. We didn’t quite have the influx of people visiting the way Bar Harbor did across Frenchman’s Bay.
The rumor was laid to rest when old man Boggs actually fell down the spiral staircase that led up to the tower in January and suffered a broken femur. A quick hunt was on to fill the position, and, before I knew it, I saw my new neighbor move in on a snowy night back in early February when his old pickup truck rumbled up to the caretaker’s cottage. He had nothing but a large duffel bag that he carried in, and I know this because I watched silently from my kitchen window while I made a cup of hot chocolate.
Now that the cold weather is gone for good, I expect I’ll be seeing him outside a lot more as he makes repairs to the property. I will not be averse if it’s done without his shirt on like he’s doing now. While he’s a good hundred yards away, I can see that the top half of his back is covered with tattoos, as well as his ribs on his right side and most of both arms. He turned toward my house once to adjust the power washer, and I saw a large tattoo over his chest that crawled slightly up his neck. The details weren’t ascertainable—it would require binoculars to see such a thing—but I’m not that much of a stalker at this point.
My iPhone rings and when I glance down to where it sits on the counter, I see it’s Miranda calling. I pick it up and answer. “Good morning.”
“Whatcha doin’?” she sort of mumbles, and it’s clear she’s eating while talking.
“Spying on my hot neighbor as he pressure washes the light tower,” I tell her as my gaze narrows back in on said man. “Whatcha eatin’?”
“Corn Flakes.” I hear her take another slurping bite, after which I think she asks, “What’s he wearing?”