I should've read the messages and answered on the plane. Should've called back, but the words were heavy in my throat. I couldn't find the right theme that landed somewhere between apology and exhaustion.
I turned the phone face down on the table and leaned back on the couch. It was easier to sit alone in the silence.
It was a moment I would've reached for it—my father's badge.
That's what I always did when the weight was too intense to carry alone. I thumbed the back of it like worry beads, tracing the number etched into the old bronze. It didn't fix anything, but it made the silence less empty.
Now, there was nothing to reach for.
The badge was gone. I'd lost it somewhere between the beach and the fire. Maybe it had fallen out in the fight.
I told myself it was only a piece of metal, but I couldn't lie that well, even to myself.
The kitchen clock ticked loudly. I checked the time on my phone—4:37 AM. I couldn't call anyone at that hour and was too wired to sleep.
My apartment had always been a place to shower and change between shifts. Not a home, only a location. I should have felt safe here, back on American soil, surrounded by familiar streets and my own belongings. Instead, a restless vigilance kept my shoulders tight and my breathing shallow.
Lars Reeves had been someone's son and someone's brother. Men like him didn't die without consequence.
Whatever had led him to that dock in tactical gear hadn't ended with his fall. It had only changed shape, a flame passing to a new fuse.
Chapter eight
Alex
TheTV'sblueshadowsflickered across my living room. I muted the volume, but I couldn't ignore the scrolling headlines beneath footage of the Tahitian marina in flames.
I'd fallen asleep on the couch again, with the laptop balanced precariously on my chest like a shield. My neck ached from the awkward angle, and my mouth tasted of stale coffee.
SWAT Officer Island Killing: Investigation Continuesscrolled over and over.
I pushed myself upright, scattering printouts across the floor. They joined the debris of yesterday's research—articles about Lars Reeves, corporate filings for Reeves-Halvorsen Technologies, and fragments of interviews where he'd mentioned defense contracts. I'd scattered the pieces of someone else's broken life across my coffee table, trying to make sense of the wreckage.
When I saw on the news the authorities were sending Michael back to Seattle, I cut my trip short, too. It was now three days since I'd returned to my home city—four days of silence from Michael.
Historians understand that absence of evidence isn't evidence of absence. The gaps in the historical record often reveal more than what remains—like shadows outlining a figure removed from a photograph. For four days, Michael's silence had been that kind of negative space, a void that took the precise shape of what I'd lost.
My phone sat beside an empty mug. I'd checked it thirty-seven times since yesterday. I knew this because I'd started counting, hoping the pathetic tally might shame me into stopping.
What would one more time matter? I picked it up and scrolled through my contacts. The entry on Michael had no last name, but I knew it now—McCabe—from the endless news stories. The one photo I'd taken of him accompanied the spare entry.
I scorned myself out loud. "This is ridiculous."
My email inbox overflowed with messages from colleagues—careful inquiries masquerading as concern.
Did you actually witness it, Alex?
Were you questioned by the authorities?
Have you been contacted by any journalists yet?
Each message hid voyeuristic curiosity behind a veil of academic interest. I didn't answer any of them.
What could I say? That I'd spent one night with the man at the center of an international incident? That I'd watched something vital inside him ignite when the explosion rocked the resort? That I'd known him for less than a day, yet couldn't stop thinking about him?
Every headline dripped into the hollow place Marissa once filled. It was absurd to mourn a connection that had barely formed, yet the ache was terribly familiar.
I glanced at the wall where her photo hung in a silver frame—a candid shot from our trip to Orcas Island three summers ago. She was laughing, hair windswept, and unaware of the camera. It was so spontaneous. I had to capture the moment.
