The main road that cuts through the heart of Thalia Island ends at small parking area (made of solar tiles, like the sidewalks in town) next to a dense but narrow forest we unofficially call the dead-end woods. Pulse pounding in my ears, I slide the car into park and consider what the hell I should take with me. Not like I have a weapon or even any bear spray. Does this car have a tire iron?
My work phone rings again. Many more of these physical shocks and I’ll go into cardiac arrest.
“Hello?”
“Walk through the woods. Straight through. I’m waiting on the rocks on the other side, out of view of the water.”
“OK. I need to change my shoes.”
“It’s not a fashion show, Lara.” The call ends.
I slide out of my YSL slingbacks and into the wretched hiking boots everyone here loves so much. I’m
