Chapter 23
Sawyer
By the time I land in Hibiscus Harbor, the adrenaline that kept me upright through Ian and Mia's wedding weekend has long worn off. I’m running on fumes—emotionally, mentally, physically.
I didn’t even pack my bag. Just walked out of the damn reception and onto the plane like a man chasing something that might already be gone.
Becky meets me at the front door. Her expression says it all before she even opens her mouth.
"She left. Took Ghost, too. Left a note on the kitchen counter," she says, holding out a folded scrap of paper. It’s got Charli’s handwriting.
Neat. Controlled. Like she was holding herself together with every letter she wrote.
I read it once. Then again. Every word feels like a punch to the ribs.
It doesn’t say where she’s going—just that she’s sorry, that she needs space, that she hopes I understand.
But how can I? How do you understand someone walking out of your life with nothing but a scribbled goodbye?
The edges of the paper are smudged, maybe from her hands, maybe from tears. Maybe both.
I don’t understand how we got here—how everything that felt so steady suddenly slipped through my fingers.
But I will. I’ll make sense of it, piece by piece.
I just need to find her first. Because knowing she's out there somewhere hurting, alone, carrying the weight of something she didn't trust me enough to share—it's unbearable. And I can’t breathe until I fix it.
I stand in our bedroom and look around, and the ache that hits me is brutal—like grief wearing her perfume.
Her shoes are gone. The ones she always left half-kicked under the bench.
Her favorite mug—the chipped one with the blue stripe—is missing from the drying rack.
The office chair still holds a faint indent, a remembrance of where she used to curl up, knees tucked to her chest, typing like a madwoman on a rampage.
Everything in here still smells like her, but none of it feels whole.
It's like she was surgically removed from this house, and the scar tissue hasn't even begun to form.
Ghost’s dog bed is empty, too. And then it hits me like a freight train. She’s really gone.
For a second, I can’t breathe. My throat locks up, and my hands curl into fists at my sides. I grab my phone and scroll to the contact I haven’t used in a few years.
Jose Delgado. Pelican Point PD. Former Marine. Loyal as hell. One of the few people I trust outside my inner circle.
He picks up on the second ring, his voice thick with sleep and confusion. "Gallo? Damn, it's been a while. You know it's the middle of the night, right?"
"Yeah, I know it's late. After one in the morning," I say, my voice rough and hollow. "But I need a favor, and you're the only one I trust enough to call."
Jose’s tone shifts instantly, all sleep wiped away in a beat.
There’s steel in his voice now, the kind he used to wear like armor.
"You in trouble or is your brother?" he asks, no hesitation, just readiness—like he’s already lacing up his boots and grabbing a radio.
It hits me then, how much I appreciate this man.
Even after years of silence, no questions asked—just support, loyalty, and a willingness to help when I need it most. That kind of friendship is rare. Priceless.
"Not exactly," I say, my voice quieter now, heavier with the weight of what I’m asking. "I need your help to find someone close to me... my girl. Her name’s Charli Whitmore. She left town, took my dog and her van, and she’s hurting—I don’t know where she’s headed, but I need to find her before it’s too late. "
Jose is silent for a beat. I can practically hear him sitting up straighter on the other end of the line. "Okay," he says finally, his voice low and sure. "Tell me everything you’ve got."
And just like that, I feel the smallest thread of hope.
I give him Charli’s description, the make and model of her van, and Ghost. I explain there's a slim chance she might be in Pelican Point or she might be somewhere else. I don’t know. All I know is that she left, and I need to find her before the distance between us becomes permanent.
Jose lets out a slow breath, the kind that carries the weight of everything he wants to say but doesn’t.
"All right," he says, his voice steady. "I’ll put out a BOLO on the van. Make and model, plates, general description. If she’s parked anywhere public—gas stations, diners, scenic pull-offs—one of my guys might catch it. That’s the best I can do without a formal reason to escalate.
But I’ll keep my eyes open, Sawyer. I promise you that. "
"That’s more than enough. Thank you, Jose. I mean it—I don’t say this lightly, but I owe you. Big time. For picking up the phone, for not asking questions, for having my back without hesitation. You’ve always been solid, and I won’t forget this."
"I hope you find her, man. From how you’re acting, this one sounds like she’s worth it. And I hope you fix this—because if anyone can, it's you."
"I hope so. I need to," I tell him and then hang up and drop onto the edge of the bed, running a hand down my face. The silence in the house is deafening. It swallows me whole.
She took my dog.
She took her van.
She took my damn heart.
And now, I have to find her and figure out how the hell to earn it back.
It’s just past three when my phone rings again, slicing through the silence like a spark in dry grass.
I jolt from where I’ve been pacing the length of the living room on the hardwood, a half-drunk cup of coffee abandoned on the counter an hour ago.
My nerves are frayed raw, thoughts looping like a broken reel.
I've been running through every scenario—where she could be, if she’s safe, if she’s scared, if she’s crying.
And more than anything else, whether I pushed her away by not seeing it coming.
Not protecting what we had from my evil ex.
My reflection in the dark window stares back at me—drawn, restless, wrecked.
When the screen lights up with Jose Delgado’s name, I nearly fumble the phone getting to it. Hope spikes so fast and sharp in my chest it’s almost painful as adrenaline floods my system like a jolt of electricity.
“Did you find her?” The words explode out of me before he even has a chance to say hello. My voice cracks, laced with a desperate edge I can’t hide—too raw, too hopeful, too damn close to breaking. I sound like a man clinging to the last thread of a lifeline, praying it doesn’t snap.
“We got a ping on the BOLO,” he says, calm and to the point. “One of my guys spotted a van matching Charli’s outside a place called The Rusty Anchor, just off Route One in Pelican Point.”
My heart stumbles in my chest. That’s something. That’s her. It has to be. “Is she there? Did you see her?”
“Can’t say for sure,” he replies. “The van’s parked out back, near the dumpster like someone wanted to stay out of sight. No movement. No lights. We didn’t approach—figured you’d want to handle it yourself. But it’s her plate. Her van.”
Relief barrels into me like a freight train, nearly knocking the breath out of my lungs. I start pacing, my steps uneven across the hardwood floor, heart jack hammering against my ribs. If she’s there… if she sees me... there’s a very real chance she bolts.
And if she’s not there? If I pull up to that parking lot and it’s empty, no van, no Charli, then I have no backup plan.
None. And that kind of helplessness is terrifying.
My hands twitch at my sides, useless with energy and no clear place to put it.
I run them through my hair, then across my jaw, then start pacing again.
I don’t know how to fix this. I just know I have to try.
“Jose,” I say, my voice thick. “Thank you. You do not know what this means to me.”
“Don't mention it. Are you heading over there?”
“Yes.” I’m already on my feet, grabbing keys and throwing on my jacket.
There’s a pause before he says, “No guarantees she’s still there, man. But at least now you’ve got a direction. And if she means what I think she does to you… don’t waste the shot.”
“She means everything to me. I won’t. And thank you again,” I say one more time for good measure, the words not big enough for what he’s just given me... another shot.
“Make it count.”
I hang up, my heart pounding so hard it echoes in my ears, and I stand there for a second, the weight of what’s ahead pressing into my chest like a boulder.
Then I move—fast. Jacket over my shoulder, keys in my hand, lungs tight with nerves.
I head out into the night with nothing but adrenaline and a prayer.
Toward her. Toward the woman I let walk away.
Maybe I’m chasing a ghost. Maybe I’m already too late.
But if there’s even the slimmest chance I can look her in the eye and tell her the truth—tell her she’s everything—then I’m going to fight like hell for it.
Because losing her once is unbearable. Losing her forever? That’s not something I can live with.
The parking lot of The Rusty Anchor is cloaked in silence when I pull in, the neon sign above the bar flickering like it’s too tired to keep pretending everything’s fine.
There’s only one vehicle parked in the back corner—a battered white van that makes my breath catch the second I see it. It’s hers. I’d know it anywhere.
The paint is dull and chipped. The passenger mirror still cracked like it was the day I met her.
A crooked bumper sticker hangs on by one stubborn corner, and a familiar blanket peeks out from the back window, lit dimly by the glow of the streetlamp.
My chest tightens at the sight—it’s like seeing a ghost I’ve been chasing in my dreams finally take shape.
I sit in my car for a moment, palms sweaty on the steering wheel, willing my heart to calm down. It doesn’t. If anything, it hammers harder, because now that I’m here, I realize just how much this moment matters. One wrong move, one wrong word, and I could lose her for good.
I step out into the cool night air, my boots crunching on gravel.
I move slowly, careful not to startle her, every step toward that van like crossing a minefield.
When I reach the side, I spot the outline of her curled on the mattress in the back, with Ghost snuggled up against her, snoring lightly. The sight nearly undoes me.
I take a deep breath, steadying my nerves, and then lift a hand. My knuckles brush the glass in a soft knock.
"Charli... it’s me," I whisper, voice hoarse.