Page 11 of Black Heart

Is this something Dawson did? Or the Mystery Man? With my near-death experience this morning, I hadn’t given much thought to stumbling into Dawson’s illegal side-job, but now…

Almost on autopilot, my mind drifts to the day I inherited this lighthouse—a strange legacy from a father I never knew, a man who was a mere afterthought in my life. Could it be?

With a tentative hand, I enter the date I officially became the owner of the lighthouse, five months ago on May 13, the day my life took an unexpected turn. The keypad responds with a soft beep, the lock clicking open in affirmation.

A creeping apprehension quickly overshadows my shout of triumph. The code is a date that only a few know and marks a significant shift in my solitary world. Whoever set this lock knows me and knows my life far better than I’m comfortable with.

If I think logically, the only strange occurrences I’ve experiencedlately are my accidental recording on a USB and being saved by a dark, mysterious stranger on the street this morning. It’d be insanely coincidental if the two were related, and to top that off with the gift of a top-of-the-line lock I could never afford, I don’t know what the hell to do with this puzzle.

Whoever installed this knows their tech, and now, they’ve seen my skills, too. But why challenge me like this? What’s their game?

Fitting the phone into my hand to bludgeon an intruder if I need to, I slink through the front door. As my eyes adjust, I notice more small differences that were made to my home since I left.

The living room, usually bathed in the warm glow of my thrifted lamps, is now under the watchful gaze of small, unobtrusive security cameras perched in the upper corners of the wall.

With shortened breaths, I walk slowly, my footfalls heavier than usual. Next to the front door, where an old coatrack used to stand, there’s a sleek, new control panel with a touchscreen interface.

In the kitchen, I find more upgrades. A small device on the counter blinks with a green light, a state-of-the-art air quality monitor.

The feeling of intrusion grows as I ascend the stairs to the upper level. I half expect to find more gadgets, and I’m not disappointed—or perhaps I am. My bedroom door now has a lock similar to the front door, promising a level of security I’m not sure I need. Or want.

Thankfully, it’s not pre-coded like the front door, and the wood swings open at my touch.

Inside my bedroom, my eyes are drawn to the window, as they always are. The primary bedroom is set in what used to be the watch room, offering a panoramic, if not melancholic, viewof the surrounding waters. The glass is often misted over from the sea spray, and the waves crashing against the cliffs are a constant lullaby.

But even this isn’t free from the silent invasion. A slim, almost invisible sensor is attached to the frame, likely an alarm trigger.

My breath catches when a realization hits me—my thumb drive.

I run to my window and latch onto the curtain when I slip, nearly taking it down with me. Crashing to my knees, I fumble with the curtain’s hem, searching for the tiny hole I made and running my finger through it until my shoulders fall with the weight of relief.

It’s still where I hid it. Thank God.

Rising, I wander into the middle of my room with the drive biting into my palm as I clench it, staring wide-eyed at a place starting to feel like a sanctuary. I’d added soft textiles to my biological father’s barren space, like throws, pillows, and rugs, now transformed into a stranger’s idea of a fortress. These types of gadgets are meant to protect and make you feel safe inside your home.

But I never gave them permission to come inside.

So I wonder, are these meant to keep me safe?

Or keep me locked in?

5

LAYLA

I wake up to the soft but incessant beep of a security panel.

Groaning, I roll out of bed and rub my swollen, sleep-deprived eyes.

I spent hours last night deactivating every damn electronic device I could find and covering camera lenses with sticky notes, nearly breaking an ankle and stubbing two toes as I balanced on chairs and tables to do it.

The moment I was satisfied I got them all andchanged the code to the front door and all other codes I located, I crawled into bed, resolved to report this to the police in the morning.

But the beep.

I slide my hands down my face.

There’s a fucking survivor.