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Megan heard the anxious murmur of ice and snow, like a thousand voices whispering about her, berating her, cajoling her. Amidst their dissonance, one voice broke through.
“Margaret.”
Megan’s body jerked and the radio fell to the ground. It wasn’t the storm that called her name. She spun around and instinctively crouched, prepared to attack, but she did not have her trusty Glock. She had nothing but her bare hands and a flashlight.
Megan whirled and saw his outline. Night swelled into the menacing form of a man. There were no distinct features, only a shadow—a frightening profile that looked as if the storm had taken its vivacity and breathed life into this very monster.
The man spoke in a somber cadence that masked the scream of the gale. “I’ve been looking for you.”
All her preparation for this moment was whisked away by the wind. Even now, Megan felt the tug of that strong coastal current drawing her towards the cliff’s edge with a pull of deadly proportions. Her cry was one of denial, or perhaps madness.