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She hadn’t said much, but knowing the French girl was Henrik’s student had to be eating her alive. I’d never been one to wish ill on a stranger, but I admit, I secretly hoped the woman had woken with an extreme case of Montezuma’s revenge.

Resigned to look, I pulled up the account for World Triathlon. I clicked on the video of the podium celebration for the professional women, certain it would be Dillon in the middle.

It wasn’t.

Again, it was Elyna Laurent. But this time, it wasn’t Dillon standing to her right. Or even her left.

A herring screamed in the distance and a glacial chill worse than anything I’d experienced in Greenland slid up my spine. I minimized the video and pulled up the race results. Fifty-five competitors in the Elite Women’s start. I scrolled. Second from the bottom I found her name. Dillon Sinclair. Time: DNF.

Did Not Finish.

Scene 30

Dillon watched as raindrops pooled on the screen of her mobile, distorting the endless stream of notifications. She considered chucking the device off her eleventh-floor balcony and watching it plunge, dashed to bits against the pavement.

But that wouldn’t solve the furious note pinned to her door from Sam.

Or the dozen text messages from Kameryn.

Or the frantic voicemails from her mother.

Nor would it erase the four words, written in Seren’s impeccable handwriting, printed in lipstick across her washbasin mirror.

CALL. ME. DAMN. YOU.

Underlined. Angry. Scared.

She’d fucked up, and she knew it.

She left the mobile on the railing, where it continued to buzz as she stared across South Bank to the Thames, where the London Eye brightened the skyline with its hazy purple glow.

Where did she even start?

Sam?

No. She could wait. It wasn’t her she owed the first apology to. She’d have to get in line.

She finally swiped up the device and dragged it across her hip to dry the screen. She couldn’t put it off anymore.

“Dillon?”

Her call was answered on the first ring.

The amount of fear, and fury, and frustration emanating from those two syllables forced her throat to constrict. She swallowed.

“Hey, Seren.” There was a long silence. “I got your note.”

“You’re home, then.”

Another beat passed. Dillon closed her eyes. “I’m really sorry.”

“Don’t. Please.” Her sister sounded tired, her voice losing its edge of resentment, only to be replaced with disappointment—the washing away of grief. “You know what I thought.”

It wasn’t a question.

“I didn’t mean to make you worry.”

Seren’s laugh was brittle. “I thought we were past this, Dillon?”