Stella March - POV
Carter Blackwell answers his door at 6 AM looking like he's been awake for three days or three years—I can't tell which.
I've been sitting in my car for twenty minutes. Engine running. Heater blasting. I'm still cold. The kind of cold that lives inside your bones. The kind that comes from drowning in December Atlantic water.
Except I didn't drown. I'm alive. Sitting in my car outside a disgraced journalist's house at dawn because I'm either insane or I've been given the world's worst second chance.
My hands won't stop shaking.
Yesterday I woke up at my desk. December 17th. Fourteen days before Vanessa pushes me off that lighthouse. I spent the rest of the day locked in my apartment, rocking on the bathroom floor, trying to convince myself I'm not having a psychotic break.
I'm not convinced.
But psychotic or not, I know what happens on December 31st. I know how the champagne tastes when it's drugged. I know how Ethan's face looks when he's ending your life. I know exactly how long it takes to drown.
And I know I can't stop it alone.
I cut the engine. Force my hands off the wheel. The shaking gets worse.
Carter's house sits where Cape Marlowe pretends nothing exists. Peeling paint. Dead lawn. Crooked shutter. It's the kind of place respectable people drive past without looking. Perfect for the man who destroyed half the Institute's careers three years ago.
I make myself walk to the door. My legs feel wrong. Everything feels wrong. Like I'm moving through someone else's life wearing someone else's skin.
I knock. Wait. My heart hammers so hard I taste copper.
Nothing.
I knock again. Harder. Too hard. My knuckles split skin against the wood.
The door jerks open.
Carter Blackwell looks exactly like his photo. Dark hair. Sharp jaw. Stubble. Wrinkled shirt. But his eyes—those are different. Colder than pixels can capture. Suspicious. Hostile.
"Tell your Institute friends I don't do interviews anymore." His voice is gravel and exhaustion.
"I'm not here for an interview." The words come out steadier than I feel. "I need you to help me destroy someone."
His expression doesn't change. "That's a new approach."
"Can I come in?"
He studies me. Takes in my jeans, my oversized sweater, my unwashed hair. The dark circles under my eyes. The way I'm swaying slightly like I might fall over.
"Who are you?"
"Dr. Stella March."
Recognition flickers. "Senior researcher. Engaged to Dr. Ethan Cross." His tone turns Arctic. "So this is a setup. Creative—I'll give you that."
"It's not a setup. Ethan doesn't know I'm here."
"Right." He starts closing the door.
I shove my foot in the gap. Pain explodes through my toes. I don't move. "In two weeks, my fiancé is going to drug me, steal my research, and push me off the lighthouse observation deck. I need your help."
The door stops.
Carter stares at me through the gap. Really looks. At my split knuckles. My shaking hands. My wild eyes.
"You're either having a breakdown or this is the strangest con I've seen."
"Maybe both." I laugh. It sounds unhinged. "Please. Ten minutes. That's all I'm asking."
Silence stretches. Then he opens the door wider. "Ten minutes. Then I'm driving you to a hospital."
I step inside.
The house smells like stale coffee and obsession. Investigation boards cover one wall—photos, documents, red string connecting pieces. Boxes stacked everywhere. Newspapers buried under more newspapers. Three laptops open on a coffee table.
This is what happens when you can't let go. I recognize it. I've lived it.
"Sit." Carter points to a couch that's seen better decades. He grabs a mug from the chaos. Takes a long drink while watching me. "You want water? You look like you're about to pass out."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine." He sits in a chair across from me. "Dr. Stella March. Marine biologist. Published in Nature twice. Father died when you were nineteen. MIT scholarship. Marrying Dr. Cross December 29th." He pauses. "Your turn."
My throat closes. Where do I start? How do I explain this without sounding insane?
"They're going to kill me," I whisper. "Ethan and Vanessa Liu. They're going to steal my research and sell it to Helix Pharmaceuticals for forty-two million dollars. They're going to push me off the lighthouse deck during the New Year's gala and make it look like an accident."
"That's specific."
"I know how it sounds—"
"How do you know?" Carter leans forward. "The exact amount? The exact method? Did someone threaten you? Did you overhear something?"
I can't tell him I died. I can't tell him I lived it. He'll call someone. They'll lock me up. I'll be sedated on December 31st when Vanessa reaches for me.
"I've been suspicious for weeks." The lie tastes like salt water. "Ethan's been secretive about his father's company. Vanessa asks too many questions about my research timeline. Small things that didn't add up. So I started paying attention. Really paying attention."
"And?"
"And I found financial anomalies. Unexplained meetings. Encrypted emails between Ethan and Richard Cross—his father runs Helix. I think they're planning to take my compound before I can publish January 5th." I meet his eyes. "I think they're planning to kill me to do it."
Carter studies me. "Why not police?"
"Because I need them destroyed. Not just arrested. Destroyed. Their reputations burned so completely that no one will ever trust them again." My voice cracks. "They're going to steal work that could save millions. They're going to sell it to a company that will bury it or price it so high that people keep dying. People like my father."
Something shifts in his expression. Not sympathy. Something harder.
"Why me?" he asks quietly. "Why not another journalist? Someone who didn't destroy Cape Marlowe three years ago?"
"Because you don't care about collateral damage. You'll burn everything to expose the truth. That's what I need."
"You think that's a compliment."
"I think it's survival."
Carter stands. Walks to his investigation board. His finger traces connections between photos. "I ruined innocent people because I was so focused on the story I didn't look deep enough. My mentor died. My marriage ended. Everything I had—gone." He turns back. "And you want that person helping you?"
"I want someone who won't stop." My voice is steel now. "Someone obsessed enough to work through two weeks of hell to destroy the people who deserve it. You're still in Cape Marlowe three years later. Still investigating Helix. You're already obsessed. I'm just giving you a target."
His jaw tightens. "My terms. You tell me everything. Every suspicion. Every scrap of evidence. I verify it independently. If you're lying, I expose you. Publicly."
"Agreed."
"I don't protect people, Dr. March. I protect stories. You become a liability, I cut you loose."
"I understand."
"Everyone I work with ends up destroyed." He steps closer. "Are you sure?"
I think of Ethan's regretful face. Vanessa's blank eyes. The moment of falling through darkness. Water crushing my chest. Dying alone.
"I'm already destroyed," I whisper. "I just need to make sure they are too."
Something flickers in his expression. Recognition maybe.
He holds out his hand. "Then we have a deal."
I shake it. His grip is warm. Solid. Real. The contact sparks awareness—dangerous and unwanted. I pull back.
"When do we start?"
"Now. But you need to go home. Maintain normal routine. If Ethan suspects anything, he'll move faster." Carter moves to his laptop. "Act like nothing's changed. Can you do that?"
Can I have coffee with Vanessa and pretend I don't know her hands will push me to my death? Can I kiss Ethan and pretend I don't know he's counting down the days until I'm gone?
"Yes."
"I'll start digging. Verify what you've told me. We'll meet tomorrow night—somewhere private." His eyes pin me. "And Dr. March? Don't do anything stupid. Don't confront them. Don't change your behavior. Stay alive until we have enough evidence to destroy them."
Stay alive. Like it's simple.
"Okay."
I walk to the door. Hand on the knob. My reflection stares back from the window—wild-eyed, desperate. A stranger.
"Dr. March?"
I turn.
"How did you really know?" Carter's watching me with those sharp eyes. "About the forty-two million? The specific date? People don't just guess those things."
My throat closes. "Does it matter if I'm right?"
"It matters if you're insane."
"Maybe I am." I open the door. "But they're still going to try to kill me. And you're still going to help me stop them."
I step outside. The December wind cuts through my sweater. I walk to my car. Get in. Look in the rearview mirror.
Carter stands in his window. Watching. Suspicious. But hooked.
I drive three blocks before I have to pull over. My hands shake so hard I can't grip the wheel. I press my forehead against the steering wheel and breathe. Just breathe.
My phone buzzes. Text from Vanessa: "Coffee tomorrow? Miss your face! "
The heart emoji blurs. I blink until it sharpens.
I type back: "Yes! Can't wait."
Send.
Then I stare at the screen. At the casual affection from someone who will murder me in thirteen days.
I whisper to my reflection, "I'm using him. Just like they used me. And when he figures out what I'm not telling him, he'll either think I'm insane or I'm the story of his career. Either way, I'm not dying again."
My reflection stares back—feral, desperate, alive.
For now.