When We Fall (Star Harbor #2)

Chapter 1

ONE

SELENE

My hair was a rat’s nest, my tits were out, and I had exactly twelve minutes until I was late for my virtual meeting with the maritime museum.

I glanced at the clock again.

Where the hell is Amanda?

Amanda—my less-than-reliable babysitter—was supposed to be taking my daughter, Winnie, for the morning. I had hoped an outing like the park or even an ice cream cone would be enough to occupy and tire out my precocious five-year-old.

A deep ache settled between my ribs. I hated how much I missed her, even when she was right upstairs.

I would have loved for that person to be me, but post-divorce, I had bills to pay and a to-do list that seemed to grow with every passing moment.

“Mama!” Winnie’s shriek flew down the stairs and slammed into my chest, right where my anxiety already lived.

I bristled and tamped down the urge to yell back up at her.

With a sigh I set down my coffee mug. I could always reheat it in the microwave later. I hastily buttoned my blouse as I walked upstairs.

“Win, how many times have I told you, we don’t yell at each other in this house. If you need something from me, you can walk downstairs and—”

I stopped, staring at my five-year-old, who was standing on a step stool in the bathroom. Her hair was glistening wet and dripping with some kind of . . . goo.

Please be hair gel, don’t be glue. Please be hair gel, don’t be glue.

Her sticky hand smeared across the bathroom vanity as she leaned in closer to look at herself with a pout. “I want my curls bouncy like Auntie Elodie’s.”

Sadly, while Winnie’s dark hair color did match my sister’s, she had gotten my texture—a sad half-flat, half-frizzy mix that had always made me envious of my sister’s effortless bounce.

I exhaled and offered my daughter a soft, understanding smile as I moved toward her. My hands cradled her face, squishing her cheeks and accentuating the pout across her lips. “I think your hair is perfect just the way it is.”

I swallowed the echoes of the voices from my childhood. You’d be so much prettier if you did something with that hair. Have you ever tried styling it like your sister?

I looked down at her sweet, glum face. “I’ll tell you what,” I said.

“If you really want to try to coax a curl, we’ll bring in the professional.

” I tried to glide a few fingertips into her hair, but the sticky mess made it impossible.

“We can cook dinner for Auntie Elodie and Cal, and I bet she would be more than happy to give you a few pointers.”

Crisis averted, Winnie’s big brown eyes lit up. “And Levi too?”

I chuckled. “Levi too.” Levi was Cal’s fourteen-year-old son and, in Winnie’s eyes, the coolest kid to ever exist.

I stood behind my daughter, my hands on her shoulders. “What did you use so I know how to fix this?”

“Guh-ell,” she said proudly.

Winnie had been adamant about wanting to learn to read before starting kindergarten, so I knew immediately she meant gel. Her phonics was strong, but she was still learning.

I heaved a sigh of relief. Thank goodness.

I mentally calculated the extreme lack of time before my meeting.

Our eyes met in the mirror—mine tired, hers impossibly hopeful. “How about this?” I got to work brushing her hair back into a ponytail. “Today we can try a slicked-back pony.” I waggled my eyebrows at her. “Very chic.”

Winnie eyed herself in the mirror as though she wasn’t entirely convinced, then broke into a wide, gap-toothed grin that made my heart twist.

Crisis 1 of 876 averted. Check.

Once her hair was sufficiently slicked back, I gave her shoulders one more loving squeeze. “Time to go. Amanda should be here any minute, and I have a work call.”

“What’s that?” With a twisted face, Winnie pointed at my shirt in the mirror, and I looked down to find a mystery stain across the lapel of my cream-colored blouse.

With a huff I left the bathroom, then unceremoniously hauled the shirt over my head. “Please get dressed,” I called over my shoulder as I tossed my top into my bedroom hamper.

As I was digging through my drawer for another suitable option, two knocks sounded at the front door before it pushed open.

“It’s me,” my little sister, Kit, called out.

My eyes lifted to the ceiling. Thank god for tiny miracles.

“Hey,” I called down the stairs. “I’m just getting dressed. There’s coffee in the pot.”

Winnie, now dressed in a black-and-white-striped top and hot-pink tutu, danced down the stairs to greet her aunt.

I hadn’t prepared a second outfit option when I had pulled out my clothes the night before, though with the way my life had been going lately, I probably should have.

I selected a simple black knit top with a modest crew neck and short sleeves.

At least if something got on that, the dark color could hide it.

I looked at the clock. Four minutes.

With no time for pants, let alone makeup, I bounded down the stairs in my sleep shorts.

Kit was perched atop the counter in cutoff shorts and a navy tank top, sipping her coffee and looking as unbothered as ever.

“Can I steal you for a half hour?” I pleaded. “It’s an emergency. I don’t know where the hell Amanda is and I have a call with the maritime museum starting . . .” I glanced down at my watch. “Literally now.”

Kit raised her coffee mug in salute, talking around an enormous bite of blueberry muffin. “You got it, boss.”

Relief and gratitude washed through me.

I picked up my cold cup of coffee before squeezing Kit’s forearm. “Thanks. I’ll be quick, I promise.”

Kit nodded, then chuckled. “Is this a no-pants Wednesday?” she asked, noting my mismatched attire.

I shrugged. “Virtual meeting and I’m out of options.” I pointed at each piece of my outfit. “Put together professional on the top.” My hand dropped to my pajama shorts. “Struggling single mom on the bottom.”

Without waiting for Kit’s quippy response, I walked out the back door and hustled across the lawn to the carriage house in the back.

At first, living in a duplex on the edges of downtown Star Harbor had not been ideal, but I came to find it had its benefits.

The European-style home came with a sizable carriage house in the backyard.

I had known my property manager since I was little, and when I had asked Nancy if I could convert the unused space into an office and restoration space, she couldn’t have cared less.

It was a sanctuary in the chaos of my life.

The carriage house sat nestled beneath a canopy of old sycamores, its weathered brick and white trim softened by climbing ivy and late-summer sunlight.

Gulls wheeled high above, their cries distant beneath the rustle of dune grass pushing in along the fence line.

On humid August mornings like this, the breeze carried a clean sweetness off Lake Michigan—fresh water and sand, edged with the sharp green of late-summer pines.

I’d trimmed the hedges into something neat and intentional, but the wild bergamot near the porch steps refused to be tamed.

Inside my office, everything shifted. Cool, filtered light spilled through UV-protected windows.

Flat files and worktables lined the walls in precise rows, tools arranged with quiet purpose—bone folders, pH pens, soft brushes placed just so.

A blush-pink velvet chaise sat untouched in the corner, except when Winnie claimed it for an impromptu nap.

It smelled like cotton gloves and history, and for a few blissful hours a day, it was mine—quiet, ordered, and entirely under control.

But as soon as I unlocked and opened the door, I knew everything was wrong.

The humidity in the air was off. I glanced at the dehumidifier, its light blinking an ominous red. That was a problem, but one that would have to wait until after the call.

A spider danced across the flat files, and I shrieked before swiping a hand and flinging it into the depths of god knows where. A full body shiver rattled my bones. I turned on my computer and tapped my foot as I waited for everything to boot up.

“Come on,” I whispered, tapping the desk. “Come on, come on—”

I was already two minutes late.

After opening my digital calendar, I clicked the link to the meeting and smoothed a hand over my hair. My fingers snagged in a knot at the back of my head. I winced.

Shit.

I tucked my unruly strands behind my ears and straightened my shoulders. I did my best to paint my face with a polished, indifferent smile. “You’ve got this.”

My flat smile wobbled at the edges, and I hoped the client didn’t notice through the screen as we signed off. The thirty-minute meeting lasted nearly an hour.

I had been working with the local maritime museum on various projects—one project in particular was digitizing their registry. They wanted it uploaded today.

I flipped to a clean page on my yellow legal pad and added it to the top of a brand-new to-do list—the last one was now a graveyard of half-finished chaos.

I loved a good list, but it seemed like I was always needing to start a new one before any of the tasks on the previous list were complete. My saving grace was the project I could start after the digitized registries.

I glanced at the shelf in the corner, my eyes settling on the thick, yellowed pages of my upcoming project.

A delighted giggle tickled my throat. Recently a client had dropped off a moldy, possibly cursed, wedding book from 1902.

She’d said it smelled like secrets, and I couldn’t agree more.

I had earned a master’s in museum studies with a focus on archival preservation.

After working at a university library for years, I had returned home to Star Harbor after my divorce.

Now I ran a small but prestigious private practice specializing in the preservation, restoration, and appraisal of rare paper-based materials—books, letters, maps, photographs, ledgers, that kind of thing.

It wasn’t just restoring the photos or tracing my fingertips over the loopy handwriting that seemed to be lost in time that appealed to me. I was obsessed with what was hidden in plain sight.

Marginalia—the human traces left behind in books and letters. I liked knowing someone had been here before me. That their words mattered, even scribbled in the margins. Notes in margins, half-torn love letters, faded dedications . . . a wistful sigh escaped me.

For the time being, that project would have to wait.

I swiveled in my chair to face the windows that overlooked the backyard.

A loud cackle escaped my throat. Pressed to the glass, tongues out, cheeks puffed, were Kit and Winnie.

They slid down the glass and dissolved into a fit of giggles as I stepped outside. Clippings and sticks were clinging to their hair, and there was a suspicious, opened jar of peanut butter at Winnie’s side.

I planted my hands on my hips and looked down at them. “What are you two up to?”

“Uh-oh. The fun police are here,” Kit teased, earning her another playful laugh from Winnie.

Winnie kicked her feet. “I was trying to catch a squirrel for a pet, and Auntie Kit thought I might have better luck with peanut butter.” To emphasize her point, Winnie stuck her dirty index finger into her mouth and sucked off the remaining peanut butter with a pop.

My nostrils flared as I inhaled and tried not to lose my shit on my little sister. “Is that so?”

Kit only laughed and shrugged before pulling herself up.

I helped Winnie to her feet, then crouched in front of her and dusted off her sparkly pink tutu. I held her hands as I looked up at her. “Remember, we talked about this. We can only make something our pet if we truly know they want to be a pet. Remember that raccoon?”

Winnie frowned and nodded. “He didn’t want to be a pet.”

“That’s right.” I rubbed her arms. “Do you think a squirrel would want to be a pet in a cage?” I looked up at the sycamore trees at the side of the yard. “Or do you think he would be happier, leaping and running and living outside?”

Winnie grumbled and stamped her tiny foot, but relented. “Living outside.”

I stood and pulled her into an embrace, the smell of grass and peanut butter wafting off her. “I think so too.”

I turned her shoulders toward the back of our duplex and gently padded her forward. “Okay, go clean up. We’ve got to figure out where Amanda is.”

“Man.” Kit laughed, dusting off her hands.

“What?” I asked, walking after her.

“Selene Darling.” She chuckled. “Professional good time assassin.”

Carefree Kit shook her head and followed my daughter up the back steps of the duplex. My sister disappeared into the house, and I stayed behind in the yard, swallowing a sigh.

I stood with my hands on my hips, the scent of peanut butter and dirt clinging to the late-summer air. My shoulders were tight.

Through gritted teeth, I whispered my new mantra, “Don’t die, don’t cry, and don’t kill your sister.”

I turned toward the house.

The screen door creaked. I stepped back into the kitchen and let the storm door slap shut behind me. The quiet was immediate—and suspicious.

I glanced around. Silence, except for the slow drip of the faucet and the faint tick of the wall clock.

I closed my eyes. Inhaled.

It’s fine. I’m fine. Everything is fine.

Ping.

My eyes flew open. I reached for my phone, already bracing for it.

Amanda

I’m so sorry, but I can’t do this anymore. Good luck!

I stared at the screen.

A single, peanut butter–slicked feather floated past the window.

I had exactly four and a half days to figure out a new morning routine before the school year shifted into full gear.

That meant juggling drop-off and pickup times, managing Winnie’s five-year-old dramatics, and keeping my business from collapsing under the weight of historical ledgers and digital deadlines.

I picked up my mug and took a long sip of cold coffee, now lukewarm and slightly bitter.

Then I turned around and screamed silently into the pantry.