Page 24

Hunger arrived gradually, starting as a hollow sensation beneath my ribs and expanding into something that made concentration impossible. The coffee had helped temporarily, but my body announced its needs, and it had been too many hours since the breakfast I'd barely touched.

When full darkness finally claimed the cottage, I crept back into the hallway. The tray remained exactly where Eric had left it. The sandwich sat patient and unchanged, waiting for me to decide whether pride was worth starving over.

I unwrapped the wax paper, smoothing out the creases before setting it aside.

The bread was soft, and the first bite tasted like more than food—it tasted like someone had paid attention to the details that mattered.

The turkey was sliced thin, the cheese was the sharp cheddar I preferred, and there was just enough mustard to cut through the richness without overwhelming the other flavors.

It tasted like home. A new one constructed from small gestures and patient understanding

I ate the entire sandwich sitting on my bed. I heard slight rustling from the guest room. Eric was still there.

He's still here. I folded the wax paper into a neat square. I haven't chased him away yet.

I needed air. Space. Something that wasn't the narrow confines of my bedroom, where the walls had begun to feel like the inside of a coffin. When I opened my door and heard only Eric's soft, even breathing in sleep, I stepped into the hallway again.

The kitchen oil lamp sat on the counter where I'd left it that morning, wick trimmed and ready. I struck a match, the sulfur flare bright enough to make me squint, and touched the flame to cotton fiber.

An amber glow bloomed outward, painting the familiar surfaces in warm honey. As I glanced toward the living room, I saw the letter through the stove's glass door, white paper nestled among kindling like murder mystery evidence waiting to be burned.

I stepped toward the back door, seeking the refuge of darkness and salt air, but my knee chose that moment to buckle.

The joint gave way with a grinding sensation that shot electric pain up my thigh and down into my ankle, dropping me to the hardwood floor with an impact that rattled the dishes in the kitchen cabinets.

The fall left me sprawled, legs splayed at awkward angles. I tried to stand, but the pain was bright enough to steal my vision. I stayed where I'd landed and concentrated on the simple mechanics of breathing.

In. Out. In. Out.

Dust motes danced in the lamp's amber glow. They moved without purpose or pattern, carried by air currents I couldn't feel, and I counted them until the numbers lost meaning.

My pulse thundered in my ears, drowning out the refrigerator's mechanical wheeze, the wall clock's steady percussion, and the wind testing every crack in the weatherstripping.

My emergency whistle hung from its lanyard around my neck, hidden beneath my shirt. Margaret Sinclair had insisted every caretaker carry one—three sharp blasts to summon help when the island's isolation became dangerous.

I pulled the whistle free, brass warm from body heat, and turned it over in my palm. One breath through the metal tube, and Eric would come running. One breath, and I'd have to explain why I was sitting on the kitchen floor like a broken machine someone had abandoned mid-repair.

The whistle stayed silent between my fingers.

I didn't kill Derek.

The thought arrived crystal clear, cutting through the fog of pain and panic. I'd carried the weight of his death with me to Ironhook. I knew I was innocent, but I never challenged my aunt's and my parents' verdicts.

I couldn't save him either.

That was the truth that nailed my mouth shut in their presence. I'd been in the passenger seat when Derek's drinking finally caught up with him. Close enough to witness his failure behind the wheel but too slow to prevent it.

And now she's dead, and I can't make anything right.

Aunt Helen had taken her grief to the grave, carrying years of hatred that I'd never been able to touch, let alone heal.

Whatever words I might have offered—apologies or explanations—they'd died with her in a hospital room I'd never see, surrounded by family who'd written my name out of their story.

The whistle's metal edges pressed into my palm hard enough to leave marks. Three breaths and someone would care that I was hurt. Three breaths, and I'd have to admit that isolation wasn't the same thing as safety.

I slipped the whistle back beneath my shirt and closed my eyes against the lamp's wavering glow.

Time passed differently on the floor of the cottage. Minutes stretched into shapes I couldn't recognize, marked only by the lamp's steady flicker and the gradual easing of the fire in my knee joint.

Getting upright required slow, deliberate movements.

I braced my palms against a table leg and the floor, testing the weight distribution before committing to a movement that might send me sprawling again.

My good leg bore most of the burden while the damaged one grudgingly accepted its supporting role.

The journey to my bedroom was slow, like traversing a mile in a storm. I left the oil lamp burning on the kitchen counter—its warm glow would serve as a lighthouse beacon if I needed to navigate the darkness again.

The bed received my weight with familiar creaks and adjustments, and the mattress springs sang their usual song of accommodation. I pulled the wool blanket up to my chin and lay flat on my back, listening to my pulse gradually returning to something resembling a normal rhythm.

When I'd finally relaxed, I heard the soft sounds of Eric's breathing again. Then—footsteps, quiet and slow, padding toward my door. They stopped just outside. No knock. No words. Stillness, as if he were deciding whether to say something.

After a moment, the floorboards creaked again—his steps retreating. I let the blanket settle around me and turned toward the wall, knee throbbing in time with my pulse. The lamp still glowed in the other room, casting a sliver of gold beneath the bedroom door.

Through the silence came the sound of footsteps padding to the bathroom.

Eric was awake. Still there. Still… here.

I stared at the worn wood grain inches from my face, eyes unfocused, breath slowing. The ache hadn't left me, but I wasn't alone in it. Eric was always close enough to come running.

I didn't need the whistle after all.

I closed my eyes.

And for the first time since the letter arrived, I let myself sleep.