The first is a photograph of a younger version of Sylvester smiling down at a blonde baby girl in his arms. He looks to be in his thirties or forties. Beside him is a blonde woman, staring at the duo with a grin. Though, when I get a better look, I see that the man is gripping the woman's wrist with his other hand, his fingers visibly digging into her skin tightly. Studying her face closer, I notice now that her smile is strained, and her shoulders are curled in.
Flipping it over, messy feminine handwriting is scrawled on the back.
Sylvester, Raven, and Trinity, 1994.
Raven? Sylvester mentioned he named the island himself. He must've named it after his wife.
So, what happened to her?
The next photo is of the same blonde baby, though a few years older, sitting next to Raven, who is swollen with another child. The girl—Trinity, I assume—is sitting on the floor with a miniature wooden horse between her legs. Her hair is disheveled, and her pants are stained. None of which is out of the ordinary for a toddler. I'm barely put together as an adult. I flip the image over.
Raven, Trinity, baby Kacey, 1996
In both photos, they’re in the lighthouse, with the same bookshelves. I guess this explains the children's books on the shelves. At some point, Sylvester had a family.
I move on to the last one. This one is of a sunset on the beach. It's dark and grainy and hard to see, but with closer inspection, it appears there's someone standing in the water.
I squint, straining to figure out exactly what I'm staring at.
A young woman. She’s facing the camera, and it looks like she’s naked, an arm crossed over her chest to cover herself. For a moment, I'm still confused, until I realize her palm is raised, hiding her face.
My stomach drops and my heart picks up speed for a reason I can't place.
Unsettled, I place the photos back in the drawer and shut it quietly.
“Find anything?”
“Sylvester had a wife and children…” I trail off, unsure how to explain how sinister those photos felt. Part of me doesn't want to validate Enzo's concerns, but I've been in enough dangerous situations to know better than to hide that.
Before I can continue, a thud sounds from down the hallway.
My eyes widen, and panic ensues as I pivot toward Enzo.
His stare locked on the door, he slowly shuts the dresser drawer while simultaneously reaching for the closet door.
The rhythmic thudding continues down the hallway, heading directly toward us. It's the sound of Sylvester's wooden leg.
Clenching his jaw, he cracks open the metal closet door just enough for him to slip through.
Enzo finally meets my stare, and something flashes across his eyes. I know exactly what he's thinking—leave me out here by myself.
But if I'm caught, he knows I wouldn't go down alone. So, he slides to the side and waves me in.
Sylvester opens the bedroom door just as we get the closet shut. My breath is short and chest tight as we peer through the shutters. I'm beginning to shake from the adrenaline.
Worse yet, we’re trapped in a confined space. Though wide enough to fit us side by side, we’re cramped against flannel shirts and musty coats. My vision tunnels and it feels like the walls are closing in around me.
I don’t like small spaces. I don’t like feeling trapped with no way out.
Desperately, I glance around, but there’s nowhere for me to go, and the panic only worsens.
Enzo stands still next to me, appearing unaffected by our situation, while Sylvester sits on his bed, the springs protesting beneath his weight. He grunts as he works the wooden peg off, letting it drop heavily to the floor.
Oh, God.
He's not leaving.
Eyes wide, I watch him swing his legs onto the bed and shift to get comfortable.