Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 72090 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72090 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
As we walked along the cobblestone path, I saw the tears finally starting to stream down her face. She didn’t try to hide them, didn’t wipe them away. She just let them flow freely, a physical representation of the pain she was feeling inside.
“I hate this place sometimes,” she muttered under her breath. “I hate what it does to people.”
“Heathens Hollow?” I asked, though I knew that was what she was referring to.
She nodded. “It’s a black hole. It sucks you in and never lets go. My father knew that, but he couldn’t escape it. And now he’s gone.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I just walked beside her in silence. We passed by buildings and shops, some of them closed for the day in honor of Gabriel’s passing. The few people we did come across nodded their heads in respect as we passed by.
“He always said he didn’t want a funeral,” Storee said after a few minutes. “He wanted to just be thrown into the ocean.”
“We’ll do that. Together,” I offered.
She stopped and turned around, her eyes red and puffy. She wiped her tears away with the back of her hand, but they kept flowing down her cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured, avoiding my gaze. “You’ve already done so much. I’ll try to find a way to pay you back for—”
“Don’t be,” I interrupted, taking a step closer to her. “You don’t have to apologize for anything. And don’t even think about the money.”
She scoffed bitterly. “That’s all my father thought about. Money. How to get more, how to reach for the sun and not get burned. Well… he got burned this time.”
I winced at her words. They were like a knife in my chest, reminding me of just how my best friend had died—a shotgun bullet to the face.
Gruesome.
A message that he was not worthy to be seen again. Even if we didn’t want to cast his ashes to sea, the killer who shot him made sure we weren’t given any other option.
Trying to keep my voice steady, I said, “We can’t change what happened.”
Storee looked up at me, her eyes filled with despair. She turned away, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. “Can I ask you something?”
Not wanting her to distance herself from me, I pulled her close. She hesitated for a moment before melting into the embrace, leaning her head against my chest.
“Anything,” I said, feeling the overwhelming need to never let her go.
“Do you know who did it? Do you know who killed my father?”
“No,” I told her.
Chapter 2
Storee
One year later…
The cold wind tore through the tattered edges of my fishmonger’s apron, sending shivers down my spine as I stood at the edge of the dock on the rocky shoreline. The eerie fog that enveloped the island of Heathens Hollow clung to my damp skin, making the weight of the world even heavier. It was as if the island itself wanted to subdue me, to force me into submission. But I refused to let it win.
“Hey, Storee,” called out a gruff voice from behind me. I turned to see Joe, a fisherman I worked with regularly, struggling with his net full of fish. “Need some help?”
I shook my head and flashed him a quick smile. “No, thanks, Joe. I’ve got this,” I replied, my voice steady despite the chill that whispered through my bones.
The independence that clawed at my heart wouldn’t allow me to accept help, not even from the familiar faces that dotted the small fisherman’s town. I was half the size of these men, but I was stronger than I appeared. Determination and years of earned muscle gave me that edge.
“Suit yourself,” he said with a shrug, moving on to unload his catch.
The salty tang of the ocean filled my nostrils as I grabbed the handle of my cart full of fish and began to haul it back toward the market. I didn’t have much time before my next job and needed to get a move on.
My days were spent gutting and hauling fish to the local markets and buyers, the metallic scent of fishy blood staining my hands. My nights were consumed by serving the island’s elite at private parties—those held at the Godwins’ mansion, Olympus, being the most extravagant of all. The wealthy patrons barely noticed my existence, but their indifference suited me just fine. I preferred to blend into the background, like a phantom lurking in the shadows.
Heathens Hollow was an old fisherman’s island hidden in the fog of the Puget Sound, just under four hours by boat from Seattle. There were two very distinct class structures living beneath the evergreen trees and drenched in the constant rain.
The very rich and the working-class poor.
I was on the side of the poor.
The market was busy as usual, with people haggling over the prices of fish and other goods. I made my way to a stall, nodding to the familiar faces as I passed. As I began unpacking the catch, my best friend approached, breathless.