Page 57 of If You Go

A ringing wakes me before the sun moves much. I assume two or three hours I was out. The vibrating get’s louder somehow. Or maybe I’m just more awake. My phone.

For a second, I think I’ve had a nightmare. Then I remember: thepanic, the tears, Bridget...

I sit up too fast. My mouth tastes like dust. My head’s thick. I grab the phone without looking and press the green button.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Surry.”

The voice freezes me mid-breath. Smooth. Familiar.

“It’s been so long since I’ve spoken t’ye. Did you miss me, my bride?”

My blood turns to ice.

“Who is this?” My words come out too fast, too shaky. I had just gotten that slightly accented tone out of my head after eleven years of hearing it in my nightmares.

A soft laugh. “Ah, you wound me, mo bhean. It’s me—your loving husband and father of your child. I’ve missed you somethin’ fierce. Are ya ready t’ come home? I think Bridget’s ready for you to come home, too. And it’s time to teach my son to rule with me.”

There’s screaming in the background—muffled, terrified.

“Gavin.” His name is poison on my tongue. I don’t say I don’t have a child, I don’t want to aggravate him any more than he already is. I take a deep breath before continuing. “If you want me to come, you have to stop hurting her.”

“Now, now,” he croons. “That’s not how you speak to yer husband, is it?”

I swallow hard. The years fall away, the fear crawls back into my skin. “I’m sorry, sir. I won’t raise my voice again. Please. Stop hurting Bridget. So I can come to you.”

“That’s my good girl,” he purrs. “Can ye get off the island?”

“Yes,” I whisper. Then correct myself. “Yes, sir.”

“Grand. Then come to Seattle, Surry. Bring me my child. That’s where ye’ll find me–and yer precious Bridget. My men will pick you both up at the port.”

The line clicks dead.

I stare at the phone, my hand shaking so hard it slips from my fingers and hits the floor.

For a moment, I sit there in silence. Then I move.

Fast.

I throw on clothes without thinking–black cargo pants, a black hoodie, socks, my trusty Doc Martens. My hands move like they belong to someone else. I shove my sunglasses and phone into my pocket, twist my hair into a messy ponytail, grab the small revolver from my desk drawer. I shove it in my bra, and make way way toward the stairs.

Every step down the hall feels heavier.

Don’t tell them. If you tell them, they’ll stop you. Bridget dies. You can’t tell them.

The thought repeats, an anchor dragging behind me.

Outside, the air hits like ice. The world smells of salt and pine. My lungs still burn from earlier, but I keep going–down to the docks, down to where the smaller boats are tied.

There’s one with keys still in the ignition.

I climb in, start the motor, and push off before I can talk myself out of it.

As the boat drifts away from the island, I glance back once–at the lights glowing in my family’s windows, at Brenden somewhere up there in the dark.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.