Chapter 30 Surfacing
Chapter Thirty
Surfacing
The penthouse was quiet in a way Daisy’s old flat never was. No neighbors shouting through thin walls, no pipes groaning at odd hours, no buses rumbling past at dawn to rattle windows that never fully sealed.
The silence here was deliberate and paid for, and some mornings it pressed against her so completely she forgot how to breathe inside it.
A knock on the door startled Daisy. She’d been lost in another mind-numbing stare. “Yeah?”
Maggie popped her head in. “I’m going shopping. Want to come?”
“I can’t. I have my virtual appointment with Dr. Kawanja in a bit and then I have to start preparing dinner for tonight.”
“That’s right. Do you need me to pick up anything? I saw some nice cakes in the bakery window on the corner.”
Daisy smiled. “That would be nice. Thanks.”
“I won’t be long. I can’t wait to meet your friend. Call if you think of anything else.”
She and Maggie had moved in a week ago, though “moved in” was generous for two women who arrived with two suitcases and no earthly idea how to furnish a home from scratch.
Their entire lives had been secondhand, assembled from charity shops and hand-me-downs. The concept of walking into a shop and choosing something new, something that had never belonged to another person, paralyzed them both so thoroughly they were immediately overwhelmed by the process.
So the penthouse remained mostly empty. A table and four chairs occupied the kitchen, beds filled their rooms, and a sofa for sitting in the den.
Together, they owned a collection of mismatched mugs, pans, and a kettle to get them settled, but they eventually planned to replace the old with brand new.
Neither of them was in any rush, and that was the beautiful thing about financial stability.
Money didn’t just buy comfort. It bought time, the kind of time that allowed a person to stand in the shower without calculating the water bill, or hold a bar of soap and marvel at the absurd luxury of choosing jasmine over whatever was in the bargain bin.
Sometimes, it felt like she had too much time on her hands.
Daisy would frequently find her hand frozen on a cupboard door or her eyes fixed on milk swirling into her tea, as if her body kept moving through the motions of living while her mind drifted somewhere else entirely.
Every change she faced was because of him. His impact on her life was unignorable. Yet she couldn’t reach him.
The penthouse had floor-to-ceiling windows facing east, and every morning when the city bloomed in shades of amber and rose just before dawn she felt him most. Not in her dreams or memories, but in the stillness.
She didn’t like thinking about the attack, not that she remembered much after the gun went off. And what she could remember clearly, she didn’t like to think about.
Blood—the way it was still warm when it coated her skin. The sound of her screams. The sound of Jack beating a dead man as others rushed in and dragged her away. Still screaming. Still not fully clear on what was happening.
It happened in a blink.
Then there was a man whose name she didn’t learn. Come with me, little rabbit.
Aunt Vanessa appeared next, or maybe she was already there, because the timeline collapsed and reassembled so many times, Daisy wasn’t sure what the true order was anymore.
She led Daisy into a guest room and peeled the bloodied dress from her body.
“Close your eyes,” she’d said, when Daisy’s reflection flashed red in the bathroom mirror.
Warm water ran over her skin while her teeth chattered. Tremors rolled through her like a freight train, dislodging everything.
She helped her into a pair of grey joggers and a cotton shirt then gave her a pill.
“Trust me,” Aunt V had said, and for once Daisy did, swallowing it down.
That was the last thing she remembered.
She woke at the White Swan, not knowing how she got there or how many hours she’d lost. Another pill waited and she swallowed that one as well, sleeping for another undetermined length of time until one morning the shrill ringing of a phone that hadn’t been there before wakened her.
She knew someone was coming into her suite, but she didn’t care. She only wanted to sleep.
“Ms. Burdan, a car will be here in one hour to transport you to the airport. Please see that you’re ready when your escort arrives.”
Daisy followed direction without question. Her only thought to get home so she could continue to sleep.
When they finally dropped her off at her flat, the air smelled stale. She fell into bed and didn’t move for two days.
She awoke to the frantic pounding on her door and found Maryanne on the other side. Her friend’s face darkened with fury that spilled out in rolling Spanish.
“English, Maryanne,” she’d said, backing up to let her co-worker in.
“Seven days!” she had snapped. “I’ve been calling and texting you for a solid week!”
Daisy fell onto the couch and pulled her T-shirt to cover her thighs. “I’m sorry. I…” She stumbled, trying to think up a lie. “I had the flu.”
It was a believable lie, since she looked like death.
Maryanne’s anger dissolved into concern, and she pressed her cool palm to Daisy’s forehead. “Poor child.” She had clicked her tongue to the back of her teeth. “When is the last time you eat something?”
Her answer had been irrelevant. That night, Maryanne returned with a big pot of soup.
Daisy was supposed to meet Maggie on Saturday and knew if she missed their lunch date she’d probably lose touch with her and never see her again. She didn’t want that to happen so she forced herself to shower and order a car.
The money had arrived before her flight home. An impervious mountain of proof that the whole thing hadn’t been a dream.
The brasserie on Piccadilly was exactly as described, from the gilded arches to the marble floors.
Maggie was already seated when Daisy arrived. “Daisy!” She rose so quickly her chair scraped the floor.
Her dark Irish curls bounced with the giddy energy of a woman who’d gone from a cramped flat in Galway to sipping tea in an iconic Piccadilly café. She pulled her into a fierce hug, and the warmth of it cracked something open in Daisy.
She tried to match her friend’s excitement. Tried to smile and exclaim over the menu and share in the wild, improbable joy of drinking tea from bone china in the middle of London on an overpriced Saturday. But her composure soon crumbled.
Maggie didn’t flinch. She reached across the table and took both of Daisy’s hands, held them firmly, and asked, “Was it the man from the Feast?”
The relief of finally being able to discuss this with someone was incredible but short lived. Daisy skimmed over any personal details about Jack, trying to summarize the events without incrimination.
“He just let you leave?” Maggie had asked, her expression a twist of confusion and repulsion.
After tea, they wandered through Green Park into St. James’s, and sat on a bench as pigeons scattered at their feet. Maggie listened as Daisy described everything she was feeling as best she could.
“I know it was only one night, but I honestly thought we shared something…bigger.”
“Oh, Daisy. That’s the problem with sex. It confuses things.”
But they hadn’t had sex. A truth too complicated and layered for her to admit.
“If something is truly meant for you to have, it won’t pass you by,” Maggie said it with quiet conviction.
The sun had begun to set. “Do you want to come back to my flat?”
“Sure. My flight back to Ireland isn’t until late tonight.”
When they reached Daisy’s flat Maggie took one look at the rotting moldings, the stained ceilings, and the paper-thin walls. “Jaysus. Your place is as bad as mine.”
That was when the idea of getting a new place together surfaced between them.
“But you’re leaving.”
“I don’t have to.”
“What about your family?” Daisy had asked. “Wouldn’t they miss you?”
Maggie loved her family in the way people love a country they’ve emigrated from, with fondness tempered by the firm knowledge that they would never go back. So the decision was made. They found a London penthouse within the week, toured it, and paid the first year’s rent in one fell swoop.
Daisy opened her new laptop and signed into the portal where she and Dr. Kawanja had their sessions.
“It’s good to see you, Daisy.” Her voice carried the same measured warmth she remembered. “How’s your week going so far?”
“It’s been quiet.”
“Is that a good thing?”
She shrugged. “I’ve been spacing out a lot. Same as before.”
“I think that’s natural. You’ve been through a lot.”
“I’ve been thinking about him a lot.” They were still locked in to the perpetual NDA, so they spoke around the edges.
“How often?”
“Every hour. Every minute.” Her mind never fully left him.
“Has the move brought some distraction?”
“Some.”
“Community, even a small one, is how we heal, Daisy. Having friends nearby is good for you. Have you and Maggie been getting along?”
“Oh, yes, Maggie’s not the issue. I am. I just…can’t seem to move past…” She shifted the pillow on her lap and the laptop wobbled. “If I could just know where he is.”
Dr. Kawanja’s expression didn’t shift. “Daisy, we’ve discussed this.”
“But I was there.” The frustration rose before she could temper it. “I know the island exists. I know what happened. I can’t pretend none of this is real when I lived through it and it’s all I can think about.”
“No one is asking you to pretend your experiences don’t exist. But there are boundaries to what we can discuss.”
“On the plane, you said we could talk about the Feast.”
“The Feast, yes. But that does not give me the right to share personal details about the other attendees.”
“But you know.”
“Daisy,” she said with firm warning.
“If I could just talk to him. If someone could just put me in touch with—”
“Daisy, you know that’s not possible.”
Daisy swallowed back her frustrations, but her mind wouldn’t relent. “What about the Volkovs?”