Page 51 of At First Flight (Coral Bell Cove #1)

It’s one of those hot, high-summer mornings when the sun glints off everything too sharp.

The humidity is thick enough to drink, and every breath I take tastes like honeysuckle and leftover thunderstorm.

The cicadas’ song fills the spaces between Oliver’s distant laughter and Evelyn humming something tuneless in the screened-in deck.

I’m at the kitchen table folding laundry, sock after sock, towel after towel, when there’s a knock.

Not loud. Not frantic. Just… steady. Measured enough that it puts something unfamiliar in my chest. The kind of feeling that says this knock isn’t here to borrow sugar.

I toss the clean dish towel aside and move toward the door, every step slowing without permission. Worry that it may be Dean’s father is at the forefront of my mind, quickly followed by an unpleasant visit from Prescott.

And when I open it—I stop breathing because I recognize the person on the other side immediately. It’s her. Marin. Prescott’s wife. Her eyes meet mine, and for a second, I swear the entire world holds still.

She’s changed.

She’s not the perfect, polished, porcelain woman I remember seeing in the magazine articles Ashvi showed me with bloodred lipstick and pearls clutched like armor.

Today, she’s all soft linen and flats. Her hair is dyed dark and tucked behind her ears like she gave up trying to style it, and her eyes… they aren’t sharp anymore.

They’re tired. Haunted.

That explains why no one has recognized her. Why I barely recognized her.

“I know I’m the last person you expected to see,” she says. Her voice is too quiet for someone used to taking up all the oxygen in a room.

I don’t answer right away, and my grip on the doorknob tightens.

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. Nervous. Marin Keating-Hoolihan looks nervous. “I just… Can we talk?”

Part of me wants to slam the door. Lock the past behind it, not that she has done anything wrong herself. It feels like I’m inviting Prescott back into my life.

But the rest of me, the part that survived her husband, the part that lived through the whispers and the sleepless nights and the questioning of my worth, sees something else in her eyes.

I step aside. “Come in.”

She exhales like she’s been underwater for days.

We sit at the table, the one coloring books and crayons strewed about and lemon tea rings on the wood. The laundry pile is still there. So is the sunlight and the sound of Evelyn laughing in the distance.

And somehow, that makes this feel real. Like she’s not in control here. Like she came to me.

“I know you probably want to know what I’m doing here still married to Prescott,” she says after a beat.

I just stare at her. “What are you doing here?”

She swallows. “I’m building a case.”

My stomach drops.

“Against him.”

The air rushes out of my lungs so fast I blink.

“Against your husband?”

“Soon-to-be ex-husband,” she corrects.

I can’t speak. I can barely move.

“While I’ve been in hiding, I started working with a lawyer. And a few other women. There are… God, there are a lot. And some of it’s been happening for years. Mysterious deaths, murders, blackmail. Under everyone’s noses.” Her voice cracks. “Under mine.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut. Sharp.

Crushing. Unrelenting. My stomach turns, bile rising at the back of my throat as her voice continues to echo in my head.

Murders. Blackmail. Deaths. And Prescott.

My Prescott, or the version I’d convinced myself existed, had his hands in all of it.

No wonder the Hoolihan family worked so hard to cover their tracks in the press.

The edges of the room begin to blur, the sounds dulling like cotton has been stuffed into my ears. The floor doesn’t shift, but it feels like it should. Because everything beneath me suddenly feels unstable, like my foundation is cracking wide open.

“You disappeared.” My voice is stiff, hollow. Like it's not even mine. “I know it was you who sent the text. Right?”

I don’t even know what answer I’m hoping for. Maybe that she didn’t. Maybe that this was all just a coincidence, a misunderstanding, a terrible dream.

But her response is a whisper, a confession weighted with guilt and fear. “I did. Because I needed to believe I could catch him in the act. I needed to see how far he would take it with you. How much do you know about his plans for you?”

I recall the conversation I had one early morning with Dean when he showed me all the evidence against Prescott that his PI had gathered.

The plan to murder me and retain control of my patents, only to have them removed.

I remember the anger I felt and how I took it out on Dean at first until my brother stepped in and set me straight.

All of my anger and fear needed to be directed at Prescott.

But the fact that Marin knew all of this unleashes a new kind of emotion.

My throat burns. Not just with the rise of tears, but with shame. I swallow hard, trying to breathe, but my chest is tight, and my lungs feel compressed. Like the air itself is suffocating.

Dean warned me. The truth from home feels far more removed than hearing the truth from someone in Prescott’s circle.

My fingers tremble as I press them to my mouth, as if that might stop the flood of panic crashing over me. I can barely speak, barely move.

And now? Now I finally see the truth and the scale of it. The way I was a pawn in something far darker than I ever imagined.

The worst part? I can’t stop wondering what would’ve happened if I hadn’t run. If Dean hadn’t found me. If I’d stayed one more week. One more day.

Would I still be here?

Would I still be me?

I drop onto the nearest chair, knees buckling beneath the weight of realization. My palms are clammy. Cold. My heart’s thudding too fast, like it’s trying to outrun the truth I can’t unhear.

“I didn’t know,” I murmur, voice barely audible. “I didn’t know any of it until recently.”

And now, for the first time, I understand just how much danger I’ve been in. Just how much he’s been protecting me from. And I don’t know if I’m more terrified of Prescott… or of the shame curling inside me for trusting the wrong person.

“I didn’t come to make it okay. I came to say I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have let him take it so far. But I’m not letting him do this to anyone else.”

I look at her then. Really look. At the way her hands are shaking slightly. The way her voice, for all its practiced calm, keeps trembling around the edges.

And suddenly, I don’t see the woman who betrayed me. I see the one who was used just like I was. Just differently.

“I used to think I was strong,” I murmur. “Back when I had a plan. A lab. A career. But it wasn’t until after I left him that I realized strength isn’t about keeping your life neat.”

“No,” she says softly. “It’s about surviving the mess and still waking up the next day.”

I nod.

And for a long moment, we just sit there. Two women trying to carve something decent out of the wreckage. She tells me how she learned he had planned to murder her and take claim of her family’s racing horse estate. Something only she was the last beneficiary and heir of.

She hands me a card when she stands to leave.

“If you want to talk. Or testify. Tell your side of the story. You won’t be alone in voicing his manipulations and emotional abuse.

Or even just scream at someone who deserves it.

You’re not alone anymore. And no matter what, Prescott and his parents will pay for everything they’ve done to every person they’ve hurt. I’m going to make sure of it.”

I don’t take the card right away but then slip the cardstock from her fingers. She gives me a small smile. “If you watch the news at all, they’re going to arrest him tomorrow. Should be some entertaining TV.”

I watch her slip into her car and drive away on the gravel path disappearing among the trees. I still wonder how she found me.

And for the first time in a long time, I feel like I can breathe.

Later that night, I lie in Dean’s bed and stare at the ceiling. I think about the way he holds Evelyn when she’s scared. The way Oliver lights up when Dean shows up to help him build a lopsided LEGO city.

I think about the way he kissed me like I wasn’t breakable. Like he didn’t see my cracks as faults, but as spaces to fill with light.

And I wonder…maybe starting over doesn’t mean forgetting everything that came before. Maybe it just means forgiving myself for what I let happen. And letting someone stay, even when it scares the hell out of me.

The house is quieter than usual. Evelyn is tucked into bed, one leg thrown over her stuffed fox, waves sticking to her cheeks.

Oliver asked for one more story but fell asleep three pages in.

I lingered longer than I needed to, brushing his hair back from his forehead, watching his chest rise and fall like the steady rhythm of something safe.

When I finally pad into the living room, Dean’s there.

He’s on the couch, legs stretched out, wearing an old hoodie and gym shorts. He looks up when I walk in, and the soft, uncertain expression on his face guts me. It’s like he knows something shifted today, and he’s waiting to see if it has cracked or healed.

“Hey,” he murmurs.

“Hey.”

I sink into the opposite end of the couch, tucking one leg under me.

He watches me for a second too long, then asks, “You okay?”

I nod. “Marin came by today. Prescott’s wife.”

His jaw tightens instantly. “Here? What did she want?”

“To apologize.”

That gets a blink. “You’re kidding.”

“She’s building a case against him. And everyone who helped cover up everything he and his family have ever done.”

He exhales and rubs a hand down his jaw. “That’s… a lot.”

“It was.”

I tell him everything. The way Marin looked small, tired, but honest. The way she didn’t try to defend why she let it go so far. How tomorrow should make for some interesting news with the Hoolihan arrests.