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Friday night, I got a text from her while I was up pacing my apartment. I double-checked my watch. It was almost midnight in Los Angeles, which meant it was early morning in Leeds. In less than half an hour, she would dive headfirst into the most important race of her life.

I swiped the text open, anxious. It was so unlike her to have her phone on—especially this close to the time of the start.

I’m sorry. I love you.

I breathed a sigh of relief, promptly texting her back.

I’m sorry, too. I was just worried. I love you. So much. You’ll do great today. I’ll be thinking about you the whole time. XOXO

The message went unread.

I set my phone on the kitchen counter and headed to the balcony. Just a few more hours and this would be over.

This part, at least.

Then…

Too far ahead.

I turned my focus to today—and today, only.

She could do this. Shewoulddo this.

Scene 50

Dillon stood in the body marking station as a chattering Scottish woman meticulously applied the number3across her clean-shaven skin: first her upper arms, then her thighs, and lastly, her calves.

“Braw number, that. Good omen, if you ask me.” The woman continued to hum away as she checked the ankle strap on Dillon’s timing chip and gave her the thumbs up. “Alright, lass, get out there and give it laldy!”

Dillon said nothing, just walked away.

Roundhay Park was teeming with activity, spectators already lining the barriers to stake their claim on the best places to view the race. Somewhere in the crowd would be Seren. Sam. Her mam.

She didn’t look that direction.

Instead, her attention turned to the gleaming surface of Waterloo Lake, where the swim course marshals were preparing to enter the water.

The race start was in less than an hour.

Scattered across the gentle slope of trampled grass, athletes were stretching, pulling on wetsuits, rubbing their faces with sunscreen and dusting their bodies with talcum powder.

Dillon knew she needed to join them. It was time to double-check her gear. To go through her race-day rituals to get fired upfor the horn.

But it wasn’t there—the rush of adrenaline, the unrelenting obsession that had fueled her ruthless ambition since the first time her dad pinned her with a competitor’s number when she was twelve-years-old. There was no start line anxiety. No pre-race jitters. Her heart was beating too slowly, her palms dry, and fingers steady, with none of the charged energy needed to hone her focus onto the start.

Stepping off the damp grass onto the pavement, the bones in her knee made a familiar grind.

It hadn’t taken the results of her latest MRI to know she’d fucked up, ignoring Dr. Monaghan’s advice.

Patience, he’d preached.Slow and steady wins the race.

But slow and steady had never been how Dillon lived her life.

And it didn’t matter now—what was done was done.

She stabbed her toe into the ground, seeking the sensation of the pain. Trying to find the ache all the handfuls of ibuprofen and expired bottles of OxyContin had been unable to hide. For the past month, it had become a hurt she had come to rely on—the defense of endorphins creating some kind of warped high.

But this morning there was nothing. All she felt was numb.