Thompson had fulfilled his mission. He had reached out to Freya, and she had contacted me. I took a sip of kombucha, leaned back on my bed, and read Freya’s message for the twelfth time.

Love your photos @The_Hawkeye_61. I’m a local influencer looking to take my page to the next level. Interested in a partnership?

Partnership. I didn’t know what that meant exactly, but I liked the sound of it. Freya and I would be a team. I’d portray her as a wholesome, maternal beauty; rebuild her brand as a pure, angelic Madonna. No one would care about the dead hockey player, the illegal hit, the ugly lawsuit. Freya would get more money and swag, bigger and better sponsorships. And in return, I’d get . . . what? More followers? A free camera? I didn’t care about any of that. I just wanted to be close to her again. I wrote back.

Would love to discuss. Can we meet?

Within seconds she had invited me to her home.

I debated whether I should reveal my identity before I turned up at her house. What would she do when she saw me on her doorstep? She was capable of extreme anger, even violence. But Freya wouldn’t physically attack me. I’d spent months analyzing the scene I’d witnessed in her kitchen that night and concluded that Max must have deserved her wrath. He must have done something cruel and horrible, may have even hit her. Freya wouldn’t throw crockery at me or chase me with a barbecue fork. But there were other ways she could hurt me . . . with her words and disdain.

But if I revealed myself through a message, she might shut me down instantly. She could block me from her Instagram page, and I would lose all access to her. It wasn’t a risk I was willing to take. With my heart in my throat, I drove to her house. I parked my truck behind her Range Rover and walked, on spaghetti legs, to the front door.

Freya answered the bell seconds after I rang it. She looked gorgeous with her tanned skin and white-blond hair, her face fuller from the pregnancy. It made her appear softer and sweeter. But the smile flew from her lips, and her blue eyes narrowed at me. She looked like a very pretty, very pregnant viper, ready to strike.

“What are you doing here, stalker?”

“I-I’m the photographer,” I stammered, “I’m Hawkeye Sixty-one. It’s me.”

There was a brief pause where I could almost see her slotting the pieces into place. “Oh my god,” she said with a disdainful sneer.

“You’ve seen my page,” I said quickly. “I’m good. Really good. I’m the best photographer on this island.” I didn’t know if this was true, but then neither did Freya. “And I want to help you.”