CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
SARAH
It’s wild how a place you never even planned to stay can suddenly feel like home.
Days blur together in the lake house, and what was supposed to be a quick stop has turned into a week. I guess time flies when you’re not running for your life.
I had never seen a skeleton before. Not until James found the one in the office.
He said it was probably the man who used to own the house, a writer, judging by all the pages scattered across the floor, the desk, even the bed in what’s now our room.
James didn’t tell me how he died. Not really.
But I could tell he knew. And whatever it was, it wasn’t good.
He gave the man a resting place behind the house, under a willow tree.
Said it was the least we could do. I watched him dig the grave in silence, his jaw locked.
When he finished, he just stood there, staring at that tree like it might speak back.
The next day, when we were cleaning, I saw him in the office, reading through everything.
Notes, stories, half-finished pages. He told me it was just fiction, nothing important.
But I noticed the way his hands clenched when he pulled the last sheet from the typewriter.
He didn’t say a word, just folded it and slipped it into his jacket pocket.
He never brought it up again.
Later, he helped me clear out the rest of the office. Said I should have a place that was mine, a space where I could practice again. So now it’s my studio. I haven’t trained since we left the cabin. And God, I’ve missed it.
We’re safe here. For now, anyway.
But even paradise has its cloudy days. And today? One just walked into the living room.
The wood floor creaks under Michael’s boots as he sinks into the couch, way on the other end, as far from me as he can get. He’d been limping all week, but he’s recovered now.
Usually, having him close is comforting, but ever since that run-in with Axel in the parking lot, something’s been off. He’s different now, and not in a way that’s easy to ignore.
At first, I thought I was just imagining things. A missed joke here, a distracted answer there. But it’s been a week. A whole week since he actually talked to me.
Did I do something wrong?
He’s staring into the fireplace as if I’m not even in the room. Like we’re strangers. And that hurts more than I want to admit.
“Hey, big brother, can we talk?”
No answer. He doesn’t even look at me.
And then he does something even worse than saying something hurtful. He gets up and walks away.
He. Walks. Away. From me.
I watch, stunned, as he opens the front door and steps outside. He heads toward the lake, leaving me alone in the house as the door clicks shut behind him.
Enough. I’m done with this.
My feet move before my brain even catches up. I yank the door open so hard it slams against the wall. The noise shatters the quiet, drawing Lorelai and Ryan’s attention from where they’re lounging by the water. Lorelai lifts her sunglasses, and Ryan frowns.
James stops mid-swing near the dock, a pile of chopped wood at his feet. The axe is still in the air as he turns to stare at us.
“Michael! What the hell is your problem?” My hands curl into fists at my sides, my whole body barely holding back the rage. “Why won’t you just talk to me?”
Michael freezes on the porch, his shoulders going stiff. He turns around, jaw clenched like he’s swallowing a curse.
“I don’t want to talk to you right now, Sarah. I’m too pissed to have this conversation. Not after what you pulled.”
He turns away again, avoiding my eyes.
Oh, hell no. I’m not letting him walk away again. Not this time.
I grab his arm, my fingers bunching into his shirt. “Tell me, Michael. What did I do?”
His eyes finally meet mine, and for a split second, vulnerability flickers across his face. He shakes his head, brushing off whatever thought tried to break through and slipping the mask back on.
“Dammit, Sarah. It’s not about what you did. It’s about what you didn’t do.”
That hits me like a slap across the face. I know where this is going. It’s about the missed shots in the parking lot. And I hate it.
“We’re not having this conversation, Michael.”
“Oh, yes, we are!”
I bite my lip hard to keep from saying something I’ll regret. My fingers twitch at my sides, and I can feel every single eye on us.
I step back, shaking my head. “I don’t want to talk about this.”
“So now you don’t want to hear what I have to say?
You don’t want to talk about it?” he snaps, his voice rising.
“You can’t fool me, Sarah. I was there when Dad taught you how to shoot.
Okay, I’ll admit you’re better with Mom’s pocketknife, but you’re still a damn good shot.
I’ve seen you hunt a hundred times since we were kids.
There’s no way in hell you missed those shots by accident. ”
He’s looking at me like I’ve betrayed him. Like I’m not who he thought I was.
And for a moment, I don’t even know how to defend myself.
“You put your life in danger that day in the parking lot,” he continues.
His eyes lock on mine, but they’re not just looking at me; they’re seeing something else, too.
Something that haunts him. “You looked me in the eye and said you were ready. Do you have any idea how terrified I was when I found you tied up? How do you think that made me feel, huh?” He shakes his head, eyes squeezing shut.
“Those fucking handcuffs! That’s all I see every time I close my eyes. ”
God, he’s scared. I never wanted this.
“Oh Michael, I’m sorry—”
“You think ‘sorry’ makes this better? It doesn’t, Sarah.”
I flinch under the weight of his words. He’s mad, sure, but he looks terrified, too.
I know his knee was injured back at the gas station, yet he still ran two miles to save me. The thought makes my throat tighten.
“I never meant to scare you,” I say, my voice softer. “I just wanted to prove I could handle it.”
He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t ever want to see you like that again, Sarah. Dad asked me to protect you. You were there. You saw his eyes right before we lost h—”
He breaks off, and the silence that follows says more than anything he could’ve said out loud.
“Why didn’t you shoot them, Sarah? Why?”
The question. The one I’ve been dodging, burying deep down, hoping no one would ever ask.
My eyes flick to James, standing by the dock with his arms crossed and his jaw clenched.
He never gets involved in my arguments with Michael.
Not once. Not even when I know he’s got a thousand things to say.
Now he just nods at me, quiet and steady, lending me his strength.
Telling me it’s time to speak up. To tell the truth.
And I know I have to.
“I don’t want to be a killer.”
The words come out in a rush, and Michael goes still.
“They were right there, right in my sights, and I-I panicked, okay? I got scared. I’m still scared.
” My voice cracks, and a lump rises in my throat as tears blur my vision.
“I-I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t pull the trigger on them.
So I aimed high, just to make noise. I knew you’d hear it.
I’m really sorry. I just… I can’t kill anyone. I can’t become a killer.”
It hurts to say it out loud, but somehow, just saying it lifts a little of the weight off my chest.
I blow out a shaky breath and look up at Michael, meeting his green eyes—eyes just like mine. Our mom’s eyes.
Michael shakes his head slowly. “I don’t want that for you either, little sister. But I need you to be safe. And sooner or later, you’re going to have to pull the trigger.”
He steps closer and pulls me into a bear hug, kissing the top of my head like Dad used to do. It’s his way of showing he cares, even when his words are tough. Dad would’ve been proud.
I look up at him and grin. “So how many fights does this make? Gotta be in the thousands by now.”
Michael rolls his eyes, smiling. “Lost count around your tenth birthday.”
“Wow, I’ve been annoying you that long?”
“Oh, the suffering you’ve caused me,” he says with a groan, clutching his chest in mock pain.
I can’t help but laugh. “Let’s drink to that.”