Island Girl is on Radish!

Read “Island Girl” on Radish! Get the app, read first 3 chapters for free.

A mysterious girl with amnesia shows up on the island, claiming to have survived a ship wreck. Garrett takes her in. She’s a god send, until men come to claim her. But soon she is back in his arms, and he’s fallen hard. Is she a dream born of loss and loneliness or part of an insidious scheme to take him for all he worth?

Under my pen name: Adrian Bleu

The Old Shack

I was running through the woods, chasing a squirrel. I was fascinated with all creatures back then. A kid. The world was new and everything was fresh. I had the hunting instinct of a hound and a desire to chase, search, find. But once found, I didn’t know what to do with my quarry.

The gray squirrel frantically ran through the tree tops. I ran behind, threw rocks. It lead me to an opening in the thickest part of the woods. The sun dappled the clearing. It was a bright, clear day, and it was startling to suddenly be out of shade. I was hot and was growing tired of the chase. In front of me stood a lopsided old shack. I was immediately intrigued. It barely stood, in a small clearing, uneven and faded as a gray day in December. The partially open door, shed chips of faded white paint. Choking brush wrapped around one side of the building and seemed to be squeezing what little life was left out of the wood.

I stood at the door and peered into the black interior. It was small, about twelve by ten feet. The dank smell of rotting wood, thick and moist. It was an unsettling odor that seemed more like a filthy whisper than a smell. Fresh dirt and decaying leaves. The ancient door scraped the slab as I pried it open. I took a step inside. A chill ran through me. Still, dank, cold. A window in the back let in a bit of sun. Gaps in the roughhewn floorboards widened in spots of light. Vines threaded through the floor, but were dead or dying in the perpetual rankness. A strange chandelier hung down, too low to be of any use. Dirty glass, covered in black mildew and green film. I took another step inside. A damp chill swept over me like a thin blanket. In the far left corner was a small cot. A pillow lay atop the mattress, uncovered and molding. Cigarette butts littered the floor. Below the window was a small brass container. I was intrigued, thinking perhaps some lost treasure lay inside. But as I approached I heard it ring out. Just a small ping, as if something dropped into it. I turned sharply, looking for the safety of the open door. There came a knock on the roof. I looked up and saw a black smoky haze hovering on the ceiling. A low whisper spoke, “Get out.” The voice chilled my spine. I bolted forward, toward the light of the door. I must have been running full force when I hit something hard and fell back. I remember feeling like the floor cradled me, my whole body, like I’d fallen into a rut. A perfect outline of my body. In my mind, I saw a field of black dots, like on a black and white TV screen. People were running. They were far away and small, like a mass of moving shadow, but they were all running in the same direction. A face came close to me. I could see she was a nice old lady. But her mouth opened and she yelled close to my face, “What?” The word was yelled, long, slow, filled with hate, torment, self-pity and regret. Her breath was freezing cold, and had the smell of dead leaves and rotten flesh. The venom in her voice startled me awake. I felt all of these things at once. They clawed into me. I ran like hell. I was myopic and could only see what was directly in front of me. I kept running. Above, in the trees, I heard a squirrel, jumping from tree to tree, as if chasing me, menacing me, wanting me to make me pay for my past transgressions. My stomach churned. My heart exploded in my chest.

I came to the small field adjacent to my back yard, and I stopped. I bent over, my hands on my knees and heaved. My head ached with pounding force. My eyes hurt. My vision slowly started coming back to full color.

My house stood on a small incline against the shadows of the setting sun. A dark outline against orange light. The two story house suddenly seemed foreboding. I shook off the feeling when I saw a light from the kitchen, and my mother’s shape in the window. Thoughts of supper, a warm shower and bed warmed me. But I couldn’t help feeling as if something had changed. There was a heaviness in my heart. A joylessness. Then a yearning to return to the shack came upon me. I saw it clear as day in my mind, the crooked slant of the shack against the night sky, the gray wood, the tree branches squeezing what little life remained there. I turned to the woods and saw a black mist, like a shadow slowly melting into the trees. A calling arose from there, like a cooing. Only more yearning than a coo, yearning like a child might for love. I ran to my house and slammed the door shut. Closing out that shack forever, and knowing I’d never go back. But I was mistaken. I went back every night in my dreams, the old lady’s voice hollow and rancid in my face. I never hunted another living thing after that.  

More Fun from kirkus!

If you follow the link, you can see the great review of my latest novel, Dreaming Wide Awake. The story of a slightly psychic PI who unravels a mystery involving the secret government Stargate Project, (a remote viewing program) and finds it leading to the trail of a possible serial killer.–15/dreaming-wide-awake/;jsessionid=0FCF465689B1935457B1818411AE7EFD.prodny_store02-atgap08?ean=2940165376535

Deppea Splendens (Revised)

4 out of 4 stars!


Dreaming Wide Awake by Charles R. Hinckley is the second book in the August Chase series. The author said his inspiration for this series came from a precognitive experience he had in which a crime was committed. The first novel was a standalone story. In the current tale, although the questions having to do with the current investigation are answered, a major unresolved issue will continue over into the next book. However, it can still be enjoyed on its own. After reading the first novel, Dream State, I found the author’s impressive writing imaginative and thrilling and looked forward to his next story. Therefore, after seeing this one, I seized the chance to read it and wasn’t disappointed in the least.

Written from the first-person point of view, this 339-page crime drama/mystery was thrilling. The tale started with action as Gus witnessed a murder in his dream. Then, as Gus investigated the murder and dealt with Grossman, the twists and turns kept the novel mesmerizing and intense and had me wondering what would come next.

I love books with unique characters. Each character here has their own distinctive personality. Gus and Mill are both believable and likable with obvious strengths and flaws. Gus hates his paranormal gift. Not only does it cause many sleepless nights, but it has cost him his girlfriend. He takes dangerous chances, and Mill does not hesitate to point that out. Mill is a tech-savvy genius with a love for muscle cars, who sold his company for a fortune. He represents a true friend, who is there through thick and thin. Their friendship and witty banter lightened the story and frequently made me smile. It was hard to know who to trust at the beginning of the novel. Therefore, not wanting to provide a spoiler, the villains will not be identified, but they are sufficiently creepy and will make one’s skin crawl.

There was absolutely nothing about this book that I didn’t enjoy. Therefore, I enthusiastically award it a rating of four out of four stars. Readers who enjoy thrillers, crime dramas, mysteries, and paranormal stories will appreciate this novel. Sensitive readers need to be aware there are violence and profanities in the book.

The Small River Man

I came upon the small man in a dream.

He squatted by a river teaming with fish. As he looked into the rippling waters, I asked him where he came from and he said, “It is a closed system. There was nothing before and something since. The idea was strong, intense and consuming. It took root in the soil of imaginings and grew by way of hopes and dreams, emotions, gradually taking form. This is the eye of man. It sees all in front of it, none behind and certainly not into tomorrow. It’s frightened by things it does not understand, is wary of new events, yet trudges on in hopes of finding sameness, a lack of pain, some joy, perhaps a feeling of enlightenment. Happiness even. It marvels at small acts of physical manipulation. It doesn’t know what’s best for it. And it dies, leaving behind that which it has created.”

“Do you mean to say I was born of an idea and am the eye of man?”

He looked at me with his white and tearing eyes, unable to make out my form and whispered, “Do you have a dime?”

I pushed him into the water and walked on.

Island Girl Part 10

(Warning sexual content, some violence, PG 13)

The headache started as soon as he lifted his head from the pillow. Pain behind his eyes. He turned on his back and sat up. He was alone. Sunrays cut through the room. Dust danced in the rays. His eyes felt the stab of his drink. He walked to the bathroom and relieved himself. In the kitchen he stuck his head under the well pump and soaked his head in the cold water until the back of his skull went numb. He grabbed a kitchen towel, then walked back into the bedroom. Both pillows on the bed were troughed. The covers on his side were ruffled and out of sorts, the other side was still tucked in. He walked into the kitchen and searched the floor to find evidence of blood, a struggle, fresh death, and found none. The table and chairs were still in place, the pots and pans, freshly scrubbed the night before were still stacked in the rinse tray by the sink.

He stood on the porch and scanned the yard. The woodpile appeared undisturbed. The wind was calm. The bay looked clear and smooth as glass. A lobster boat hovered near shore. The lobsterman pulled lines. Gulls circled and squawked above. He turned to go back inside, but stopped when he saw a splotch of red moving around the corner of the cottage. Her red jacket.

When he got to the garden, she was covering a spot with fresh dirt. She stood and wiped her hands on her jeans. Her face was white, with two patches of red on ether cheek.  

“What are you doing?”

“Feeling better?” She said it without a hint of sarcasm, or real concern.

“Where’s Bill?”

“There.” She pointed to the fresh dirt.

He frowned. “You buried him?”

She nodded, her mouth drawn, fighting grief, a tear forming in the corner of her eye.

“He’s dead and you buried him in my garden?”

“You told me to.”

“I did?”

She nodded, then went to him and pressed her face against his chest, holding him tight. He pushed her away, looked at the fresh grave, then turned and walked back toward the house. She followed close behind.

“What else could we do? You don’t want to go to jail.”

He turned on her, his teeth clenched, but couldn’t bring himself to look at her, that red face streaked with grave dirt, and tears. He walked quickly down the path toward the water. She followed close behind.

“We both know it was an accident, but they’d never believe us. You had sex with his wife. They’d see right through that. It’s first degree murder.”

He walked to the water’s edge and stood with his hands in his pockets, looking out at the bay. The lobster boat was moving off. He thought of his traps, and how yesterday his biggest concern was whether to pull the traps and now he was a murder. An adulterer killer.

“I did what had to be done. You know that,” she said.

He shook his head and stepped into the cold water.

“What are you doing?”

He took a few more steps, the freezing cold instantly numbing his legs, then he dove in head first. He swam straight out, away from the dock, his head coming up only to take a single breath. He swam until he saw a green lobster buoy and stopped and treaded water. His legs were numb, his arms stung from the cold. His throat was tight.

“Garrett!” She yelled, but he didn’t turn toward her.

She went to the dock, released the lines and pushed off as she jumped into his boat. Taking up an oar, she paddled out to him. He turned and watched her as the oar rang hollow against the side of the fiberglass hull. When she got close, she tossed him a life vest. “You need to come back. I need your help. Please. What are you doing?”

He took hold of the vest and placed it under his chin, his teeth chattering. He said nothing and didn’t look up at her, as he turned toward shore and kicked.

She picked up the oar and started to paddle back to the dock.

He crawled up onto the rocky beach and collapsed.

She tied the boat and stood on the dock, just above where he lay. His feet were still dangling in the frigid water.

“You’re going to get hypothermia. Get up.”

He lifted his head toward her and coughed. His eyes stung and his head pounded. His fingers didn’t work anymore. When he got to his feet, he fell toward the house, but caught himself before his knees collapsed completely. Each step was a controlled fall forward, up the hill, stumbling as he went. His knees finally buckled when he reached the porch steps. He turned and sat, watching her, as she came toward him.

“It’s our secret,” she said. “I’ll protect you and you’ll protect me. We both know what really happened. It was an accident.”

He squinted at this stranger, this pariah who’d come into his life and said, “I don’t know you.”

“You didn’t mean to do it. You were trying to protect me.”

He looked doubtfully at her, water dripping from his hair down onto his face and neck, his skin red and stinging from the cold.

“He beat me. You saw what he did. The bruises.”

He got to his feet and walked slowly into the cottage. The almost empty whiskey bottle was still on the counter near the sink. Pulling it up to his mouth, he slowly let the liquid fall down his throat. It burned him and he embraced the cool sting.

“Stop it. You’ll be sick,” she said.

He looked past her, and went to the bedroom closet. On the top shelf, behind extra blankets, he found a full bottle of whiskey and broke open the seal and took a long slug. She reached for the bottle, but he held it high above his head. She was a blur, a figment of his imagination. A pest, a demon buzzing him like a wasp.

After a few minutes, she gave up, and sat on the bed and watched him as he took another gulp.

“You’re killing yourself.”

He staggered into the kitchen. She followed close behind.

“I can cook eggs. You want scrambled or over easy?” she asked.

He gathered kindling and tossed it into the fireplace, then stuffed it with old newspapers. After tossing in a lit match, and watching it catch, he sat back on the sofa and stared at the flames. It melted into an unfocused, orange glow. There, he saw his daughter, his wife helping her walk for the first time. His little girl was full of energy and laughter. The fire warmed his skin, and he felt his beautiful wife wrap her arms around him, his little girl by her side. What were they worth, their lives? Two and a half million dollars, according to the airline and the lawyers. Two and a half million pieces of paper he could burn just as easily as those twigs. And it would be gone. Transformed into so much smoke and ash, just as they had been.

Rose banged around in the kitchen, and it drew his thoughts away. He felt the horror of the killing rip through him like a knife running into his chest. He took another long swig of whiskey. He wasn’t coming back from this one, he knew. He was lost, and that would be that. He’d die alone. Fall into a thorny bush and let the birds peck at him, until they found his bones, aged and bleached by the sun. There’d be no funeral. No mourners. He’d estranged himself from the world and now he was absolutely alone. The way he wanted it. Left alone on his island. Floating in a bottle of whiskey.

“Eggs are ready. Coffee. Toast. Come eat.”

She knelt at his feet and placed her hands on his thighs. He looked at her through the haze of grief but saw nothing. “You’re tired. Come and eat. You’ll feel better.”

He looked past her to the flames.

She got up and returned with a hot cup of coffee with cream and sugar, even though she didn’t know how he took it, and gently placed the warm mug in his hand. The heat of the cup felt good and he drank a few sips, then got up.

He went to the bedroom and stripped off his wet clothes and put on clean sweats and went to the kitchen table and sat down.

They ate. He felt his blood warm. “What about his boat,” he said, looking down at his half-eaten breakfast.

She smiled reassuringly at him and he thought her a silly girl. He could read her phony concern a mile away.

“I found it near the path to the hill, near some rocks. It’s a small skiff. He’d pulled it almost out of the water. I covered it with branches.”

He sneered at her. “You covered it…”

“I cut bushes.”

“What do you know about covering things?”

“What do you mean?”

“Branches die and turn brown, don’t last long. We need a better way to hide it.”

“Why don’t we sell the boat at the marina?”

He stared at her, the stupid look on her face made him grind his teeth. “Yes.” He nodded, knowing it was a dumb idea, but he didn’t care. They’d figure it out and come to take him away, but they’d find him dead. “You should go do that,” he said.

“I don’t have any -”

“Go to your sisters. The police will be here soon.”

“No, they won’t. Why would they?”

“Jack will tell them.”

“He doesn’t know anything.”

“That doesn’t matter. He knows what happened the first time they found you here.”

Her eyes hardened into a cold stare, a look he’d never seen from her. “I’m not going alone.”

He sat back in the chair. She went around his back and placed her hands on his shoulders and rubbed them. He didn’t trust her, but didn’t really care, either, and half hoped she’d slit his throat. She gently rubbed his neck and scalp. He closed his eyes and let her do what she wanted. She kissed his ear, then his cheeks, his lips. She rubbed his chest and kissed his throat and chin, then looked into his eyes. “I liked it when you were inside me. You stared into my eyes, and I liked that more than anything.” They kissed deeply. “Look at my eyes, Garrett.”

She led him into the bedroom and slowly removed his shirt, then his sweats, letting them slid to the floor. He stood naked in front of the bed and she ran her fingers down his legs and across his chest, then she held his hips. After a few minutes, she let him go and he slid back, onto the bed. She let her clothes fall to the floor and climbed on top of him. “I want you,” she said. “I want you to look at me and like you did before.” She moved slowly up and down, grinding herself onto him. “Look into my eyes.” He stared into her bluish-white eyes. After a few minutes, he flipped her onto her back, and felt himself melt into her. They moved in unison, breathing deeply together, sweat drenching their bodies. When his climax came, he closed his eyes and moaned, but his wife’s face popped into his head and he opened his eyes and rolled off of her. He crawled to the other side of the bed and stared at the wall, eventually slipping into a deep sleep. 

*** ***

He gasped when he opened his eyes. Covering him, a hazy shroud of light, a sheet backlit by the sun in front of his eyes. He coughed and cleared his throat, rubbed his neck. He’d dreamed he was drowning in mud. It was dark, and he was caught in a storm. He was trying to see if the girl was lost, in his boat perhaps, caught in a violent storm, when he fell off a cliff banking and slid down toward the raging ocean. He gained footing somehow, but when he tried to crawl back up, the water and mud kept pushing at him, a torrent of rain making him lose his grip, his feet slipping. When he looked back up, the mud troughed into his mouth, and he couldn’t breathe. The water and the filth filled his mouth and spouted from his nose like a fountain. He felt himself losing consciousness. His chest was about to explode, his throat was growing like a croaking toad, and he couldn’t hold it back any longer and finally took a deep breath in. That was when he was sure he’d died, and saw the bright light and that’s when his eyes popped open and he’d woken up. He couldn’t see clearly for a few minutes, it was just the bright light. Then the window came into focus. And when the blurriness had gone completely, he saw her standing by his desk. She was fully dressed and wore her red jacket. She leaned back and he heard the draw snap shut.

“Good morning.” She moved to the foot of the bed and smiled at him. He turned and followed her with his eyes, waiting to see what she was going to do. She crawled onto the bed and straddled him, her knees on either side.

He let her hover there, watching her eyes wonder around his face, like she was seeing him for the first time. She pulled the covers down and gently rubbed his stomach. He didn’t care. He was dead. He’d died in his dream and wasn’t sure he’d come back. She ran her fingers down his leg and between his legs. He felt nothing. She was just a girl. A girl on a dead man. The spell was broken. A tsunami of guilt and rage had stripped the illusion to its bare essentials. She was a human being. A girl with strange eyes. What did she want? Why couldn’t he feel anything?

“I can make breakfast,” she said, and jumped out of bed with the enthusiasm of a child.

He lay quietly on his side, staring out the window. The sky was light blue with wispy clouds. That meant more wind. The boat would rock and his fingers would freeze when he pulled his pots.

“I want to go into town,” she said, from the kitchen. He heard pans clanking together, water running, the kettle whistling. “I need a few things. Some clothes.”

What was she thinking? She buried her husband and now she wants new clothes? Of course, to get rid of any evidence. She should burn her clothes. Wipe away any blood in the cabin with bleach.

Or he could go to the sheriff, tell them it was accident. First, he could dig up the body, clean it up. They’d never know she’d buried it. That would look bad, them burying the body. The cool earth would keep it fresh, though. That was a good thing. They wouldn’t be able to determine the time of death. They’d see the bruises on the neck. Perhaps his larynx was broken. How could he explain that? Perhaps he’d push him out into the bay, let his lungs fill with water. Or he could push water down into his lungs, force fluid down there. That would make it look like drowning.

“Go. Take the truck, the boat. I’m staying here.” She poked her head in through the doorway, her eyebrows raised, like a kid being told about a birthday present. He said, “Well, you don’t have to get so excited about it. I told you you’re free to go. Take my shit, I don’t care anymore.”

She thought for a minute, her eyes locked onto the ceiling, like she’d seen a small bug and was trying to figure if it was a spider or a fly. “You still have Bill’s boat. If you need it, I mean. It runs really well. And fast. It’s a good little boat.”

“Thoughtful of you,” he said, thinking it was a sarcastic remark, but he didn’t care enough to make it sound that way.

She stood staring at him. “You should get up.”

He forced himself to sit up. His head throbbed, his eyes stung, his stomach was on fire.  He needed a shower and a shave, his hair was all over the place. “I’ll take a shower. Leave what you cook for me on the table.”

“Oaky,” she said.

He went into the bathroom and threw-up in the toilet. He grabbed a drink of water from the bottle he kept by the sink for brushing his teeth, and turned to the shower. The water was cold, very cold and he hated it. He rinsed as best he could, lathered up and repeated the rinse. He was still chilled from yesterday and felt his skull would split from the cold water.

By the time he was dried and dressed, she was gone. She’d left some coffee, scrambled eggs and toast. All cold, but well season. The coffee was still warm. He ate quickly, thinking about moving the body. He hated to see it, but had to make sure it was really there. He pictured the face, cold, pale, wet maybe, dirt filling the hollows of the eyes. They’d be closed. No, open. The dirt in his eyes. That made him squirm. Would he be bloated? It had only been a few hours, or had it been longer? At least twelve hours, he figured. Long enough to putrefy. Another reason to put the body in the water. Maybe the sharks would take it? He’d let it sink into the deep, they’d rip it apart. He pictured the deadly fight with Bill, felt his hands on his neck, the warmth of it, the blood running through the veins beneath his fingers. Had he really choked out another person?

He found the whiskey bottle on the floor of the bedroom, half empty. He took a long swig, wiped his mouth and took another mouthful, then capped the bottle and tossed it onto the bed, then thought better of it and placed it on the bedside table. He didn’t want any leaking from the cap.

He stood on the porch and looked down at the bay. His boat was gone. The land birds sang and the gulls squawked over the water, fighting over every crumb of some ripped-up dead thing. Just as he anticipated, it was windy and the cold made him tense. He went back inside and got a warmer coat, then stopped to look at the whiskey bottle sitting in the sun on the bedside table. He wanted to drink, but told himself to wait. He should have told her to get more. But really, he just wished she’d never come back.

He went around to the back shed and got the long shovel and the wheel barrow. He’d wanted to plant a garden, grow sunflowers, maybe. Those were his wife’s favorites. Large yellow sunflowers, brown in the center.

Around the back of the cottage, he found the soft spot where the dirt was freshly turned over.

He couldn’t help but check the broken antenna. It was in sight, bent down, the wires hanging loose. He’d fix that right after he got the body dug up. He leaned on the shovel and looked at the loose dirt. How had she dragged that heavy body out and buried it all by herself?

To Be Continued…

Island Girl (Part 9)

(Warning sexual content R rated, I think)


She made a fire while he put away the groceries. She knelt in front of the hearth and he watched her out of the corner of his eye, pleased she was with him.

“How about sautéed chicken and pasta?” he asked.

She nodded. “That sounds good.”

“I bought crusty bread.” He held up the uncut loaf, but she’d turned toward the fire.

The icy wind, when it gusted, could be felt coming in under the door. “I’ll have to put the storm door on tomorrow,” he said, pouring a small amount of olive oil in the large black skillet.  

She stood looking at the flames as they grew higher, the tips lapping the top of the fireplace lintel. Her outline reflected golden in the light from the fireplace.

 “You’re using too much kindling,” he said. “We don’t want flames shooting up that chimney, it’s old, needs to be cleaned.”

She took an iron poker from the set and knocked down some of the kindling. The flames receded, but burning sticks fell onto the floor in front of the sofa. Garret ran over and kicked them back into the fireplace. Rose stood back, her eyes wide as she stared at the flames. He took the poker from her and smiled. “It’s something you get used to. How much kindling to use.”

She walked into the bedroom and closed the door. Garret lit the gas burner under the pan and when the pan was hot, he laid the chicken breasts side by side, and sprinkled them with salt and pepper.

After a few minutes, he left the stove to peer into the bedroom. She lay on her side, covered by blankets. Her clothes were in a pile at the foot of the bed. The floor creaked where he stood and she turned. Her eyes were sleepy. She smiled and waved him over. Smoke began to come from the pan and he ran over and pulled it off the hot burner. He placed a cover over the partially cooked chicken and turned back to the bedroom.    

There was a slight chill in the bedroom. He sat next to her on the bed and ran his hand over the covers, down her side and hips, to her legs. She lay with her head resting on her right arm, her eyes barely open.

“Do you want-” he started to say, but she put a finger to his lips. She pulled the covers back. Her naked body dimly lit from the window. She placed his hand on her breast. Her skin was cool and dry. He removed his clothing, letting his pants drop where he stood, and flung them aside. He sat next to her and kissed her side, her hip, her breasts, then turned her onto her back. He climbed into the bed and slid on top of her. She received him as he had hoped, warmly, lovingly, without words. He grabbed the covers and pulled them over his back.

“I want-” he started to say, but again, she held her finger to his mouth. He gently kissed it. She rubbed her finger on his lips, feeling the gentle undulation of his philtrum. She drew her finger across his cheeks, and pulled him close as she stared into his eyes. She brought her lips up to meet his and they kissed for a long time. Her mouth was small and warm, her lips full. He could feel her lips move and press into him as they kissed. She was passionate and strong, growing more aggressive. He locked his eyes onto her blue-white irises and pressed himself into her.

She gasped as she fully received him, then closed her eyes and kissed his neck. He gently turned her head to face him. They moved in rhythm, their hips together, in a slow dance. They were lost to time, but floated above, locked in a moment of total joy. When they felt, as one, the orgasm coming, he said, “Look at me.” She opened her eyes and they stared at each other as he released. When they were finished, he kissed her on the lips, and they lay in each other’s arms, their bodies glistening with sweat. They listened to the wind rustling through the trees and shrubs outside, cleansing the air, cooling the earth.

At first he thought the banging on the porch was a tree branch blown in on the wind, but he quickly realized it was footsteps. A man’s footfalls rang hollow on the porch. He sat up. More banging. Garrett got dressed, and stood in the bedroom doorway, trying to see out through the windows. It was still light outside, although the cottage was in the shadow of the pine trees, and cloud cover obscured the sun. The man leaned in and looked through the window. Garrett walked to the front door and waited. A loud knock came. He opened the door and stood looking at Bill.


“You have my wife?”

“I don’t know, do I?”


“Is she your wife?”

“Let me see her.”

“She doesn’t want to see you.”

“That’s not for you to say.”

“And yet, I said it.”

“Stand aside.”

Bill tried to push past Garrett, but couldn’t move him. They grabbed each other’s shirts and as they struggled, stumbled into the kitchen. Rose stood in the bedroom doorway, staring at them. When they finally let go of each other, Bill turned to her. “Come on. We’re going home.”


She turned and walked into the bedroom. He tried to follow, but Garrett wrapped an arm around his neck. They fell back against the stove, pots and pans slamming onto the floor. In a headlock, Bill screamed for Rose, but Garrett held him tighter. Bill kicked the sink and pushed back, knocking them both into the table. Garett hurt his back, but didn’t let go. He tightened his arms. Bill thrashed back and forth, but couldn’t get free. Garrett held on until the man fell silent. Garrett fell on top of him, his hands squeezing his neck, his weight pressed on him.  

 Rose came out of the bedroom and stood silently watching. After a few minutes, she said, “Let him up.”

Garrett looked up at her and then down at the man he was still choking. His hands fell away. The man beneath him held no breath, showed no evidence of life. His chest was still. Garrett got to his feet and staggered to the sink. He pumped water and put his head under the spout. Rose knelt at Bill’s side and shook him. “Bill. Wake up.” She rubbed his hands, then felt for a pulse, but there was none. “You’ve killed him.”

Garrett pushed the wet hair from his eyes and shook his head. “No. He’s all right.”

“No, look at him. He’s not breathing.”

Garrett knelt down and felt for a pulse on Bill’s neck, but couldn’t find any. He sat back on his heels.

 “Do something,” she said.

“What do you want me to do?”

Garrett got to his feet and walked to the door and opened it. He took several deep breaths of the cold air, then turned to her. “He can’t be dead. I didn’t do anything.”

She pressed on Bill’s chest, but he was a dead lump. Nothing moved. He was stone. She stood up and ran into the bedroom.

“Don’t leave him. Do something.”

She came into the kitchen holding a pillow and placed it under Bills neck, “You killed him!”

Garrett dripped water on the corpse. The dead man’s lips were blue, his face speckled with red. He got down on his knees and pressed the man’s chest. He pressed hard, trying to bring him back. He punched his chest and forced opened his mouth and blew into him, but didn’t really know what he was doing.

After a few minutes, he gave up trying to resuscitate him, walked to the fireplace and, somehow, he didn’t remember how, the whiskey bottle came down from the mantle and was in his hands. He drank a quarter of the bottle before he lifted his lips away. He took a long, slow breath, the sting of the alcohol making it difficult to take in air. He sat on the sofa and stared at the dwindling fire. When he looked up again, she was standing above him, her strange eyes glaring in the dull light. “We have to do something.”

Garrett shook his head and took another long swig of the whiskey.

“No? Are you saying no, you won’t do anything?”

“What do you want me to do?”

“We have to get rid of him.”

He got to his feet and faced her. “What should I do, huh?  You want me to throw him in the current, let it take him out to sea? Because that just brought you here, didn’t it?”

“No.” She put her hands on his cheeks, and squared her stare at him, trying to think. “We can bury him.”

He stood and pushed her away. “I’ll call the Sherriff. Turn myself in.”

“Garrett, no. You can’t. They’ll put you away.”

“It was an accident. They can figure that out.”

“You think they’ll buy that? You fucked his wife, then you strangled him dead.”

Garrett stared into the fire, and took another long pull on the bottle. “So, you are his wife?”

She glared at him for a second, then said, “Okay, I’ll do it. I’ll take care of him.”

She walked over to Bill’s corpse and tried to lift it. She grabbed him under the arms and dragged him halfway to the door, when Garrett cleared his throat and coughed. She turned to him.

“Where’s what’s his face, Jack?” he asked.

“I don’t know. He’s not here.”

“How do you know? He came with him last time. He’s his brother, isn’t he? And he knows about us.”

“It doesn’t matter. He’s not here. We never saw Bill, that’s all. That’s how it ends.”

“What about his boat? He had to have brought a boat.”

“We’ll sink it.”

“When we went to town, there were people that saw us together.”

“They don’t know who I am.”

Garrett went to the porch window and stared down at the dock, instinctively checking the tide level, to see how much of the cove at the dock was visible. It was mid-tide. The beach would be four more feet visible in a few hours. How far out could he sink the body without worrying where it may come up? Should he use rocks? An old anchor would be better. Gathering the information he had at hand, what his life had come to, adding it all up, he any way he looked at it, he held a losing hand. “You can tell them we didn’t have sex. They won’t check your body.” His arguments rang hollow. The inevitable truth of his downward spiral hit him, like a spider web he’d snagged on the trail. Invisible. Sticky. He’d never seen it coming.

“I don’t think he’s dead,” he said.

He walked over to Bill and took him under the arms and dragged him into the bedroom. He lifted him off the floor and onto the bed. He rolled the body into place and sat next to it, breathing heavy from the exertion. He took Bill’s arm and held it, feeling for a pulse. After a few minutes, Garrett laid down next to Bill and stared at the ceiling. The light was fading fast and the room was darker. Rose stood at the foot of the bed.

“We can bury him,” she said.

“The soil is too rocky.”

“We can take him out to the yard. Bury him under the woodpile.”

“I didn’t squeeze him that hard.”

“Whatever you did, he’s dead. Where is there a place with no rocks?”

He continued to stare at the ceiling, talking as if to himself, now. “I started a garden a while back. Behind the woodshed. I never planted anything. I wanted to grow sunflowers. The rocks have been cleared.”

“Good. We can bury him there.”

“He’s not dead.”

“Yes, he is. I checked.”

“No, there’s a faint pulse. He’ll be okay in a while.”

She took Bills wrist and felt for the artery. After a few minutes she let it drop. “There’s no pulse.”

“I felt it.” He looked at Rose, who stood at the side of the bed now, a stern look on her face. Or was it resolve?

“Go. Get out of here. I need to sleep.”

“You’re not going to sleep next to Bill, that way. How much did you have to drink?”

“I doesn’t matter. When Bill wakes up, we’ll feed him and send him on his way.” Garrett closed. He could feel her staring at him. He popped his eyes open and said, “You can go with him, too.”  He closed his eyes until he heard Rose leave, then he opened them again and stared at the ceiling. He didn’t move for a very long time, just watched the shadows moving on the ceiling, then eventually he closed his eyes and fell asleep.