Page 167

The coastal breeze stirred the long-stationary curtains, unearthing a paper trapped beneath them. Dillon bent to retrieve it. Flattening out the folds, a recumbent ray of sunlight illuminated its yellowing creases.

It was a photo of her above a faded headline:Olympic Dream: Swansea Star Dillon Sinclair Makes History as Team GB’s Youngest Triathlete.

The paper was brittle, the small columns of text no longer legible, but the image remained clear. She was nineteen years old, standing on the podium in Bermuda. She’d outraced an entire field of seasoned competitors to earn her place as a rookie at the upcoming London Games.

Dillon slid to the floor. She thought about the letter her father wrote her, how he had been so proud. He must have clipped the article from his daily paper.

And a week later, they buried him.

Tears she didn’t bother to wipe away dripped off her chin.

She studied the grainy image. The girl on the podium was smiling, her hair drenched with champagne, but there was a joylessness in her expression.

She’d expected to find the selfish woman who’d caused her father’s death. A woman who’d put her own ambitions above everything else.

But all she saw was a child.

A child who’d been manipulated.

A child who’d been controlled.

And a child who’d assumed a burden that wasn’t entirely hers.

She crumpled the article, allowing the fragments to slip through her fingers.

She wasn’t that child anymore.

She’d spent a lifetime trying to atone for her mistakes, always chasing resolutions to an outcome that couldn’t be changed. There was no record she could break to show him how sorry she was. No medal she could win that would ever bring him back.

And it was time to let it go.

Her dad had taught her to be strong. Henrik taught her to be ruthless. But no one ever taught her the value of knowing when to walk away.

That quitting wasn’t always weakness.

She leaned against the wall. A weariness washed over her, brought on by the setting sun. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d ever felt this tired. But with the fatigue also came a sense of relief. A feeling of closure.

She didn’t know what she’d do next, but for the first time in longer than she could remember, she felt like things might be okay, like she could start to see a future.

The light shifted over the windowsill. It was late.

She pulled out her phone. She needed to text Seren.

But first, there was another promise she had to keep.

Staring at the lovespoon on her father’s mantel—one he had once carved for their mam—she hit the first number in her contacts.

She drew a deep breath.

The call was answered on the first ring.

Exhaling, she closed her eyes.

“Hey, Kam.”

Scene 53: Take 2

I couldn’t sleep.