Page 170 of On Edge

“But I want to be.”

“No. You don’t. You don’t want that.” His voice is harsh now, tearing me into pieces. “You’re just confused. Traumatized by what I did to you, what you saw me do. This place can warp people, Sage. I’m fucked…but you can have a life.”

I say nothing because I can’t speak anymore. Troy blows out a breath as though this is hard for him and then walks toward the door. He pauses and looks back at me, like he’s giving me crumbs I don’t need or want.

“Sage, you deserve better than to be with a cutthroat like me. I’ll only push you over the edge.”

It dawns on me that he’s been calling me Sage this entire time. Not little finch. Not even, little blade.

Just Sage.

And then he’s gone.

Leaving me alone in an empty room, still in my wedding dress, still wearing my damn ring, clutching a piece of paper like it’s the only thing keeping me on earth.

I can’t bring myself to look at it.

When I’m ready to leave, the wedding dress hanging where I found it, the ring carefully placed on the bedside table for him to see, I walk out of the room and into the hallway. After a quick goodbye to the horses, one last view from the terrace, Kathy appears with Mundel as though they’ve been waiting for me the whole time.

“Come on, dove. Let’s get you out of here.”

Mundel takes my bags while the house manager guides me down the stairs as though I might tumble down them if she weren’t there. Then she leads me across the lawn to where the helicopter waits, its blades already spinning, ready to whip me away from all this.

“Where are you going to go?” she asks gently.

“Laine’s house. Whitechapel.”

She nods and helps me into the helicopter. The pilot confirms the destination with Mundel as he loads my suitcase, packed with all the essentials I need but don’t want, along with me. Everything else is left behind in the wardrobes upstairs.

And then we’re lifting off.

Grayfleet shrinks beneath us. Getting smaller and smaller. Then there’s the lake, the vast expanse of it, swallowing everything whole as we zoom away from the island.

From Troy.

From everything.

My hand tightens on the letter in my pocket, crumpling it slightly.

It hurts too much to read it. I don’t want to know what he has to say for himself. It’s already over, what’s the point anymore?

He said last night was a mistake and then sent me away like I meant nothing. It was all a lie. Troy’s probably relieved to be rid of me, glad not to have to deal with me, free to go back to mourning Nell properly, without the inconvenience of me getting in the way.

Fine. If he wants to be alone with his ghosts, let him.

I take the letter out.

As the helicopter dips and banks over the clear water, I hold the letter over it, my fingers twitching to let go and toss it into the lake, watch it disappear forever. But the paper is folded into a triangle. And the edges are browned as though they were burned. Or placed over a candle.

Slowly, I unfold it, steeling myself to read whatever excuses he’s written, his pathetic explanation that he thinks justifies doing what he did.

But it’s not Troy’s handwriting.

The looping cursive is familiar, with that distinctive slant to the letters that says the author is ever the optimist.

It’s my handwriting.

No, not mine.