Page 10 of Black Heart

Emmitt was mysteriously absent this morning, and I can’t say I’m not grateful for his lack of presence. In fact, I get way more work done than usual and clock out at five, getting in a light jog to my car and carefully,reluctantly,looking both ways before I cross the road.

I say “reluctantly” because a part of me kind of wants to do it again and see if he reappears.

I laugh as I slide into the driver’s seat. So dumb. Why would I want to put myself in danger just to get a good look at him again? I have enough scary-crazy on my plate. I don’t needto test if I have an angel in the form of a phantom protecting the road to my lighthouse. Or maybe it’s just his job to collect my soul when I inevitably crash into the rocks below.

He probably would’ve saved anyone. It just happened to be me today.

Not with his kind of scars,my subconscious whispers.And certainly not with the pissed-off expression he used while he peeled you off the asphalt.

I reach the lighthouse just as darkness envelops the sky, turning the sea into a vast black void. The familiar sight of the old structure should comfort me, but tonight, it feels different.

Something’s off as I approach the door to the keeper’s cottage. I can’t shake the idea of being watched. I look around for eyes in the shadows, but there’s nothing. Still, that creepy sense sticks with me.

The porch stairs groan under my weight, a familiar sound playing along with the unfamiliar shiver of the wind at the back of my neck. I fish through my purse, feeling for the key ring and dreaming about the fireplace I’m about to light when I find it and fit my key into?—

CLANK.

Frowning, I jab the key against the lock again. It makes the same sound, refusing to fit.

My head falls back with a sigh. Once again, I’ve forgotten to turn on the porch light for myself when I come home, making it too dark to see the problem.

Finding my phone amid the debris lining the bottom of my purse, I angle the flashlight, then recoil with a frown, my hip banging into the salt-damaged railing and nearly cracking it all the way through.

“What the hell?” I whisper to myself.

The lock on my door isn’t the old, worn one I’m used to grappling with. Instead, a new, high-tech lock with a pristinenickel finish is centered within my flashlight’s beam. Where dread once resided, I’m feeling a swirl of confusion now.

Who would change my locks without telling me? I don’t have a landlord, and the previous resident is dead.

Being located on the tip of a peninsula presents its own set of issues, one of which is not having neighbors nearby to ask if there was any suspicious activity while I was at work.

My arm drops to my side, taking my useless key ring with it.

It’s a smart lock, featuring a small, illuminated pad for keyless entry. Above the keypad, a small, inconspicuous camera lens is embedded, almost invisible unless one knows where to look.

I let my purse fall to the floorboards so I can bend and study the lock further. Then I look around for instructions or a code left in my mailbox but find nothing.

A less stubborn woman might spin around and drive straight to the police station after seeing this, but I am no such thing. I willbreakthis lock if I need to. This house is the only thing I have that’s mine.

Cursing under my breath, since that’s a lot better than panicking, I call the sole locksmith in Greycliff, who was out on a call, but whose wife adamantly denies ever booking a job for the cute young thing with the crazy eyes staying at the lighthouse. I believe her.

Drawing a deep breath, I lean closer, examining the keypad. My mind shifts gears from the perplexed new homeowner to the tech-savvy computer scientist I am. If this is a game, I’m not backing down and just breaking a window to get inside. No way am I inflicting such damage when I’m basically broke and drowning in student debt.

First, I check for the simplest solution—a factory resetcode. But a quick inspection dispels that hope. This lock is far from standard.

Next, I observe the wear. It’s brand new. No worn keys give away frequently used numbers.

“Think, Layla,” I mutter to myself.

Then it hits me—what if the code is something related to the house itself? A historical date, maybe?

I try the year the lighthouse was built, running my fingers over the numbers. Nothing. I follow with the year it went from a manual lighthouse operator to an automated system. Again, the door remains locked.

Frustration ranks high on my list of emotions right now, but so does my determination.

This fucker is keeping me from the warmth of my home.

Then an unsettling thought crosses my mind. What if the code is something intimately personal to me? My stomach goes cold at the thought of a stalker’s close observation.