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Initially, after watching a reel of Dillon collapse on the course in Yokohama, I’d assumed I hadn’t heard from her because she was still being treated in the hospital. I’d considered jumping on a flight to Japan. But then I came across a post fromBritish Triathlonstating that, despite suffering heat exhaustion and postural hypotension, Dillon had been released from medical the evening of the race. And still, her phone went straight to voicemail.

Two more days went by and I began to think she iced me out. It just didn’t make sense. We’d spoken daily for months. After all the delays with my shooting in Greenland, it had even worked out for us to rearrange our schedules, planning a few days together in London after she got home from Japan.

But there was no other explanation.

When filming wrapped up in Scotland, I knew I should go home. I had no reason to stay. Still, I’d found myself unable to board a plane. Not without some closure. Not without knowing for sure.

So I hunted down every article I could find on Seren Sinclair, until I found the name of her training barn in Wales—Golden Crest Farms. And then, like the fool I was beginning to feel I was, drove five-hundred sixty miles to Swansea, to pay an unexpected visit to a woman who I wasn’t even certain knew I existed.

“You must be Kameryn,” was the first thing she said, however, when she brought her horse down to a walk and approached where I’d stood watching on the rail.

From the photos I’d seen online, I knew Seren looked nothing like her sister.

Tall, willowy, dark-featured, with a gorgeous olive complexion that radiated a life spent outdoors on the back of a horse.

It was surprising, then, to find so much of her reminded me of Dillon.

As she sat with her reins resting on a chestnut gelding’s withers, it was obvious she shared the same tranquil stillness, the same quiet confidence I was so attracted to in her sister. A little more serious, a little more somber, but reminiscent of Dillon all the same.

I’d prepared a dozen ways to explain who I was, and why I was there, but they turned out to be unnecessary.

“I imagine you’re here about my sister.”

Just like Dillon, Seren seemed inclined to skip the pleasantries, cutting straight to the heart of the conversation.

“I—yes. I haven’t been able to reach her.”

“No,” she said simply. “Nor have I.” Swinging down from the saddle, she waved for a waiting groom. “I understand you ride. If you want to hack out with me, we’ll talk about Dillon.”

Fifteen minutes later, in a pair of borrowed field boots and a Troxel that smelled like sweat, I followed Seren on a quiet lesson horse out a rear gate and down a wooded trail. When we came to the bottom of the hill, into a valley of chest-high grass, Seren slowed her young mount, allowing us to ride side-by-side.

“My sister is a destructive perfectionist,” she said without preamble as we ducked under the hanging branches of an enormous hornbeam. “She’s always been a chaser of unattainable goals. And when she isn’t winning—and sometimeseven when she is—her mind leads her to believe she isn’t good enough.” She paused, helping her horse across a ditch cut from the rain. “I’d like to blame it on Henrik,” she said shortly, not asking me if I knew who he was.

It was clear she knew exactly what I knew—and what I didn’t. It was obvious few secrets were kept between the two Sinclairs.

“But even though it may have been exacerbated by him, it’s something I’ve had to come to accept is just part of who she is.” She soothed the hot young warmblood as a branch brushed across his flank, and a ridiculous part of me couldn’t help but think how much my mother would love her quiet seat and gentle hands.

I turned my attention away from her horsemanship. “Where is she?”

Seren hiked a narrow shoulder. “I don’t know.”

“Has she done this before?”

“Yes.” She didn’t hesitate to answer. “But not in many years.”

When? I wanted to ask, but didn’t feel it was overtly relevant. Instead, I went with my more pressing concern. “Should we be worried?”

The gelding fussed with his snaffle, wanting to snack on the tops of the meadow grass, and Seren spent longer than was necessary schooling him, taking her time to respond.

“I’m not sure,” she said at last, and the candor in her tone made my heart quicken. “But honestly,” she turned to look at me, rallying half a smile that did nothing to successfully hide her own distress, “she’s probably fine. She’ll resurface in a day or two and our mam will give her a right telling-off.”

We let the conversation drift. Seren asked me about my mom and her career with horses, and I asked her about her quest toward the Olympic Games. I realized, by the nonchalance of her answer, that representing Great Britain was not the end goal for her, but simply part of her journey as an equestrian. Unlike hersister, she didn’t seem to view life in singular achievements, but instead enjoyed all the small successes along the way.

It was something I could understand. It was the same way I felt when she asked me aboutSand Seekers, and what I looked forward to most in starring in what was sure to be a blockbuster film. She seemed to believe me when I said I just really wanted to do the story justice—that would be the pinnacle achievement for me.

By the time we dismounted, the globe of the sun had disappeared beneath the horizon. The horses were sent off with a groom as I unclipped the helmet and wiped sweat and hair from the borrowed boots, before Seren walked me to my car in the gravel driveway.

“When my sister turns up—”when, I noted she said, still trying to ease my concern, “I know it’s unfair to ask this of you, but go easy on her, if you can. I truly don’t believe she realizes what she puts everyone through.”