Chapter 4

I don' t know how many days passed after that. My world had shrunk to the shack, the beach, and the constant, gnawing hunger. An infected gash on my leg, from a slip on the rocks, throbbed with a life of its own. It was hot to the touch, and red streaks were starting to creep up my thigh.

I was dying. I knew it. The infection was poisoning me from the inside out.

Delirious with fever, I stumbled out to the beach one last time. I had one final, desperate idea. A signal fire.

I gathered every piece of dry driftwood I could find, my body screaming in protest with every movement. I used the last of my strength to build a pyre on the highest point of the beach. Using the multi-tool, I struck the flint against the knife blade, again and again, my weak arms trembling.

Sparks flew. A tiny ember caught on a piece of dry moss. I blew on it gently, my vision swimming. It flickered, then caught.

The fire grew, smoke billowing up into the clear blue sky. A black plume of despair and defiance. I collapsed onto the sand, my energy spent. I closed my eyes, listening to the crackle of the flames and the distant cry of a seagull. This was it.

I must have passed out. When I woke, it wasn't to the sound of seagulls, but to the rhythmic thwump-thwump-thwump of helicopter blades.

I tried to sit up, but my body wouldn't obey. My vision was blurry. A shape was descending from the sky. Figures were running towards me.

A woman' s voice cut through the haze. "We've got him! Get the stretcher! He's alive!"

Hands, gentle but firm, rolled me onto my back. I looked up into a face I didn't recognize. A woman with sharp, intelligent eyes and a look of intense concern. She was saying something, but her words were muffled, distant.

"It's okay," she said, her voice becoming clearer. "You're safe now. We've got you."

I tried to speak, but only a dry croak came out.

She leaned closer. "I know who you are," she whispered. "You're Ethan Lester."

How? How did she know my name? I looked like a wild man, a skeleton covered in sun-burnt skin and filth.

The world tilted and went black.

Meanwhile, back in civilization, Nicole Gordon was growing uneasy. It had been almost a month. She' d expected a call. A text. Something. An apology.

She confronted Tara at a sorority mixer. "Have you heard from Ethan? He hasn't used the satellite phone at all."

Tara, sipping a cocktail, waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, he calls me. Almost every day. Just to curse me out. He's being stubborn. He'll break eventually."

It was a lie, but it was a lie Nicole wanted to believe. It fit the narrative of Ethan the spoiled, stubborn quarterback.

But doubt was a seed, and it had been planted. One night, unable to sleep, Nicole drove past a popular campus bar. She saw Tara' s car parked outside. On an impulse, she parked and went in, staying in the shadows near the back.

She found Tara and Caleb at a corner table, laughing.

"...must be eating grubs and talking to seagulls by now," Caleb was saying, a smug look on his face.

Tara snorted with laughter. "Good. He deserves it. Once he's officially declared 'lost at sea,' his dad will be so broken up. You can be the son he always wanted, Caleb. And you can comfort poor, grieving Nicole." She stroked his arm. "You'll have everything. The trust fund, the family business... me."

The world tilted on its axis. Nicole felt the blood drain from her face. Grubs. Seagulls. Lost at sea.

This wasn't a detox retreat. It was a murder plot.

Horror, cold and absolute, seized her. She fled the bar, her mind reeling. She called her father, her voice a hysterical whisper. "Security. I need private security. Now. And a boat. We're going to the island."

They arrived at dawn. The island was quiet, menacing. They found the shack easily. Inside, the stench was overwhelming.

And in the corner, they found the skeleton I had discovered. But now, it was wearing something new.

A tattered, dirt-stained replica of my number 12 football jersey. A jersey Tara must have brought with her on her last visit, a final piece of her sick stage play.

Next to it, on the wall, was my message.

"Nicole Gordon, I curse you."

Nicole saw the jersey. She saw the bones. She saw the words.

A scream tore from her throat, a sound of pure, soul-shattering agony. She collapsed, her mind breaking under the weight of what she had done. She believed I was dead. And she had killed me.