The thought arrived crystal clear, cutting through the fog of pain and panic. I'd carried the weight of his death with me to Ironhook. I knew I was innocent, but I never challenged my aunt's and my parents' verdicts.
I couldn't save him either.
That was the truth that nailed my mouth shut in their presence. I'd been in the passenger seat when Derek's drinking finally caught up with him. Close enough to witness his failure behind the wheel but too slow to prevent it.
And now she's dead, and I can't make anything right.
Aunt Helen had taken her grief to the grave, carrying years of hatred that I'd never been able to touch, let alone heal. Whatever words I might have offered—apologies or explanations—they'd died with her in a hospital room I'd never see, surrounded by family who'd written my name out of their story.
The whistle's metal edges pressed into my palm hard enough to leave marks. Three breaths and someone would care that I was hurt. Three breaths, and I'd have to admit that isolation wasn't the same thing as safety.
I slipped the whistle back beneath my shirt and closed my eyes against the lamp's wavering glow.
Time passed differently on the floor of the cottage. Minutes stretched into shapes I couldn't recognize, marked only by the lamp's steady flicker and the gradual easing of the fire in my knee joint.
Getting upright required slow, deliberate movements. I braced my palms against a table leg and the floor, testing the weight distribution before committing to a movement that might send me sprawling again. My good leg bore most of the burden while the damaged one grudgingly accepted its supporting role.
The journey to my bedroom was slow, like traversing a mile in a storm. I left the oil lamp burning on the kitchen counter—its warm glow would serve as a lighthouse beacon if I needed to navigate the darkness again.
The bed received my weight with familiar creaks and adjustments, and the mattress springs sang their usual song of accommodation. I pulled the wool blanket up to my chin and lay flat on my back, listening to my pulse gradually returning to something resembling a normal rhythm.
When I'd finally relaxed, I heard the soft sounds of Eric's breathing again. Then—footsteps, quiet and slow, padding toward my door. They stopped just outside. No knock. No words. Stillness, as if he were deciding whether to say something.
After a moment, the floorboards creaked again—his steps retreating. I let the blanket settle around me and turned toward the wall, knee throbbing in time with my pulse. The lamp still glowed in the other room, casting a sliver of gold beneath the bedroom door.
Through the silence came the sound of footsteps padding to the bathroom.
Eric was awake. Still there. Still… here.
I stared at the worn wood grain inches from my face, eyes unfocused, breath slowing. The ache hadn't left me, but I wasn't alone in it. Eric was always close enough to come running.
I didn't need the whistle after all.
I closed my eyes.
And for the first time since the letter arrived, I let myself sleep.
Chapter fifteen
Eric
Isat at the kitchen table, fingers wrapped around a mug that had gone cold an hour ago, watching Wes move through his morning routine. He woke before me. His weather log lay open on the counter. Everything in its place. Everything controlled.
He stood at the sink, scrubbing a dish that was already spotless, shoulders rigid beneath his worn shirt. He wore his grief over his aunt's death like an invisible shroud.
"Want eggs?" I aimed for casual and landed somewhere closer to desperate.
"Already ate."
I tried again. "Need help with the trail map?"
"Got it handled."
Nothing he said was deliberately mean. The emptiness hurt—how he could speak to me like I was a temporary visitor, and he'd already penciled my departure into his mental calendar.
I knew not to push. Everything I'd learned about Wes Hunter told me that pressure would only drive him deeper into whatever cave he occupied. Still, it hurt. It was painful watching himrebuild his safe harbor again, brick by brick, until he'd locked me out on the wrong side of his defenses.
Was it time to give in and go? Should I catch the next ferry back to Whistleport and lick my wounds at Tidal Grounds?
