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She takes her glasses off and tucks them into the pocket of her white coat. She regards me with a strange expression I can’t quite read. Pity, maybe. Could also be concern.

“Is something wrong?” I ask softly, my pulse kicking up.

“Not…wrong, necessarily. There’s just…one more thing.”

I brace myself for the worst, but what comes next gives me the shock of my life.

47

Julian

Three months later

The sun is brutal this morning in Gros Islet. I squint under the weight of it as I walk the narrow, winding road leading to the market. The salty breeze off the Atlantic brushes against my face, and I can already feel my t-shirt sticking to me. I shift the canvas grocery sack in my hand and adjust my sunglasses. Somewhere, music plays faintly in the distance. Country western, which blew my mind when I first touched down here. St. Lucians' tastes are quite diverse. So far, I prefer Soca.

I pass the drugstore, nodding to the woman sweeping in front. I wave at the fisherman setting up his ice chest of snapper outside the fish market. The scent of mangoes from the fruit stall is thick and sweet and tangling with the aromas of coffee and rum.

“Morning,” I say to the woman at the produce cart. I pick out some breadfruit, papaya, and a few sweet peppers.

She nods, but doesn’t smile. Fair enough—I’m not from around here. Everyone’s pleasant and polite, but I haven’t madeany friends yet. That's my own fault. Most days I don’t venture beyond the local restaurants and the barber shop.

Still, I like it here. It’s stunningly beautiful and peaceful.

I chuckle to myself on the walk back, glancing down at my toes, which are calloused in these brown flip-flops. I traded boots for Unc sandals. Tactical gear for cotton tees. War rooms for beaches.

But I fuck with it heavy.

When I get back to my place, a small, weather-worn white stucco bungalow with bright blue shutters, I unlock the gate and push through the courtyard, passing my hammock and the long clothesline strung with damp t-shirts.

I drop the groceries in the kitchen, crack the windows, and strip down to my shorts.

It’s naptime.

I usually go to the beach. Every day, like clockwork, I walk the winding trail behind the property, past almond trees and my neighbor’s goats, to the quietest stretch of the beach. I fish. Snorkel. Sit in my kayak and let the sun toast me while I think.

I mostly think about her.

But I haven’t reached out. I can’t. AJ says the police are sniffing around trying to connect her to Brett’s disappearance. I can’t risk her freedom like that.

So instead, I keep myself busy going through the encrypted data AJ pulled off of Dime’s hard drives. I’ve been diving deep into old contracts, surveillance footage, blackmail material, names…lots of names. Some of them famous.

I don’t even know what I’m looking for anymore.

But it passes the time.

And sometimes, it makes me wonder if I could do this for real. Use my skills to become a private investigator. I’d still be serving justice, but without leaving a trail of bodies in my wake.

At night, when the sea turns black and the frogs start their symphony, I eat and scroll through her social media from my burner accounts just to get my Sable fix.

She’s healing up nicely.

She’s fucking beautiful. Still.

And she’s doing it all without me.

I feel guilty, because the bright light that used to radiate from her has dimmed a bit. I can’t help but feel like it’s my fault. Once again, a woman I care about is collateral damage.

That’s why I left her in that hospital room.