I lay back against the pillow, studying the ceiling beams. The wood was scarred from decades of weather and time, marked by knots and imperfections that had become as familiar as my own reflection.
Outside, the wind was picking up. I heard it test the cottage's defenses, rattling windows and finding every gap in the weatherstripping. Soon, it would bring chilly rain, the October weather that made the island feel even more isolated than usual. Eric would be trapped with me, watching me struggle with ghosts he couldn't see and wounds he couldn't heal.
I closed my eyes and willed myself to feel nothing at all.
The need to move finally drove me from the bed hours later, when shadows had stretched long enough to claim most of the cottage, and my bladder had reached the point where ignoring it became impossible. I crept down the hallway like a burglar in my own home.
I'd barely returned to my bedroom when I inhaled the scent—coffee, rich and dark, with the faintest hint of vanilla that meant Eric had pulled out my stash of flavored creamer. I pressed my ear to the door, waiting for the sound of footsteps or the rustle of movement that would signal his presence in the hallway.
Silence.
The aroma was powerful enough that I decided to open the door. There, wedged up against the threshold, I found a wooden tray. The mug was my favorite—thick ceramic with a chip near the handle that my thumb had worn smooth over years of use. Steam curled from its surface.
Beside the coffee, a sandwich wrapped in wax paper waited. Through the translucent wrapping, I saw thick slices of what looked like the sourdough bread Eric had bought on his last trip to Whistleport, layered with sliced turkey and cheese.
A small yellow Post-it note was stuck to the wax paper. Eric's meticulous handwriting spelled out three words:Just in case.
I stared at the tray for a long moment, waiting for anger or irritation to surface—some emotion that would justify pushing the gesture away like I'd pushed away everything else. Instead, gratitude unfurled in my chest.
The coffee was perfect. Strong enough to cut through the fog in my head and sweet enough to remind me that comfort could come in small doses. I carried the mug back to my room and left the sandwich where it was.
The sandwich remained on the hallway tray while the sun finished its descent toward the horizon. I found reasons to avoid the hallway—organizing my sock drawer with military precision, reading the same page of a Coast Guard manual three times without absorbing a single word, and staring out the bedroom window at the darkening water until my eyes ached from the strain. The last gray light faded from the water while I sat there, and still, I didn't move—as if staying in my room could somehow keep the rest of the world at bay.
Hunger arrived gradually, starting as a hollow sensation beneath my ribs and expanding into something that made concentration impossible. The coffee had helped temporarily, but my body announced its needs, and it had been too many hours since the breakfast I'd barely touched.
When full darkness finally claimed the cottage, I crept back into the hallway. The tray remained exactly where Eric had left it. The sandwich sat patient and unchanged, waiting for me to decide whether pride was worth starving over.
I unwrapped the wax paper, smoothing out the creases before setting it aside. The bread was soft, and the first bite tasted like more than food—it tasted like someone had paid attention to the details that mattered. The turkey was sliced thin, the cheese was the sharp cheddar I preferred, and there was just enough mustard to cut through the richness without overwhelming the other flavors.
It tasted like home. A new one constructed from small gestures and patient understanding
I ate the entire sandwich sitting on my bed. I heard slight rustling from the guest room. Eric was still there.
He's still here.I folded the wax paper into a neat square.I haven't chased him away yet.
I needed air. Space. Something that wasn't the narrow confines of my bedroom, where the walls had begun to feel like the inside of a coffin. When I opened my door and heard only Eric's soft, even breathing in sleep, I stepped into the hallway again.
The kitchen oil lamp sat on the counter where I'd left it that morning, wick trimmed and ready. I struck a match, the sulfur flare bright enough to make me squint, and touched the flame to cotton fiber.
An amber glow bloomed outward, painting the familiar surfaces in warm honey. As I glanced toward the living room, I saw the letter through the stove's glass door, white paper nestled among kindling like murder mystery evidence waiting to be burned.
I stepped toward the back door, seeking the refuge of darkness and salt air, but my knee chose that moment to buckle. The joint gave way with a grinding sensation that shot electric pain up my thigh and down into my ankle, dropping me to the hardwood floor with an impact that rattled the dishes in the kitchen cabinets.
The fall left me sprawled, legs splayed at awkward angles. I tried to stand, but the pain was bright enough to steal my vision. I stayed where I'd landed and concentrated on the simple mechanics of breathing.
In. Out. In. Out.
Dust motes danced in the lamp's amber glow. They moved without purpose or pattern, carried by air currents I couldn't feel, and I counted them until the numbers lost meaning.
My pulse thundered in my ears, drowning out the refrigerator's mechanical wheeze, the wall clock's steadypercussion, and the wind testing every crack in the weatherstripping.
My emergency whistle hung from its lanyard around my neck, hidden beneath my shirt. Margaret Sinclair had insisted every caretaker carry one—three sharp blasts to summon help when the island's isolation became dangerous.
I pulled the whistle free, brass warm from body heat, and turned it over in my palm. One breath through the metal tube, and Eric would come running. One breath, and I'd have to explain why I was sitting on the kitchen floor like a broken machine someone had abandoned mid-repair.
The whistle stayed silent between my fingers.
I didn't kill Derek.
