Chapter Nine: The Face from Twenty Years Ago

Lila grabbed Caine’s arm.

“The chain,” she whispered. “Someone’s climbing the chain.”

Caine killed the last light in the room. The two of them pressed against the wall, barely daring to breathe. Outside came the slow, groaning scrape of chain against rock. Once. Again. Then it stopped.

Silence.

Nothing but the waves.

“They’re testing us,” Caine breathed against her ear, his breath brushing her temple. “They don’t know if we’ve noticed.”

Lila’s heart hammered against her ribs. She ought to be afraid. But strangely, with Caine’s arm across her in front, that fear did not turn to flight; it congealed into something cold and hard.

“Caine.” She whispered too. “That note — ‘Don’t go to the tide cave’ — do you think Pruitt wrote it?”

“Why?”

“Because if they wanted to lure me down, they’d have written ‘she’s waiting for you’ — that’s the hook. But the first part says ‘don’t go.’” Lila frowned. “A real trap doesn’t warn you first.”

Caine fell silent.

Outside, the creaking began again. This time closer. Then Lila heard, on the porch, the almost weightless sound of a boot on the wooden boards.

Someone was already standing outside their door.

Three people’s breathing was audible. Lila clamped her hand over her mouth. Caine slowly drew the short knife.

The person outside did not move.

They held that standoff for a long minute. Then came an almost soundless whistle — not a tune from their era, but a very old country song.

Lila went rigid all over.

It was the tune Emma used to whistle to her, when they were small.

She almost rushed out. Caine pinned her, shaking his head, eyes locked on the door.

The whistle stopped. The person outside said something low; muffled through the wood, but clear enough to make out —

“I know you’re in there, Lila. I’ve come to take you to your sister.”

It was Shaw’s voice.

“She’s in the cave, all alone, and she’s been waiting twenty years.” The voice laughed softly. “Don’t you miss her?”