Chapter Seventeen #3
My heart hammers against my ribs—too fast—too loud—too much. My fingers shake, and I can’t stop them. My throat burns, but no air gets in.
Breathe. Just breathe. Please breathe.
I don’t know if I say it or think it or if it’s someone else entirely. I’m floating somewhere between the two.
Everything is blurry now—Sam’s voice muffled, Selene’s crying, my dad’s deep tone somewhere behind it all. I think I’m crying too. I don’t know.
Then—Alisha.
Her hands are on me. One behind my neck, the other pressing firm against my chest. Her voice cuts through the ringing like a thread of light.
“Hey, Surry. Look at me. Right here, love. Breathe with me, okay? In—” she exaggerates a breath “—and out. You’re okay. You’re safe.”
I can’t follow her at first. My chest jerks instead of expanding. My hands claw at my own legs. The edges of the room flicker.
“Come back t’ me, girl,” my dad says somewhere above me, his voice raw and broken. “Ye’re alright now, mo chroí. We’ve got ye. No one’s takin’ ye again.”
The sound of his accent—thick, rooted, old as stone—grounds me.
I gasp, then choke, then finally drag in a real breath. My ears still buzz, but the world stops tilting.
“There she is,” Alisha whispers. I can finally see her face clearly. Her eyes flick over mine like she’s counting. “You with me?”
I nod, but it’s shaky.
“They want me to talk to him,” I rasp. My voice barely exists.
Alisha’s head snaps toward Dad. “Absolutely not. I’ll do it. He hasn’t heard her voice in a decade. I can fake it. He won’t know.”
My dad shakes his head. “He’ll know, lass. He always bloody knows, so he does. I’d not be askin’ her if there were another road t’ take. But only if he rings—aye? We won’t force the hand. An’ I’m doubtin’ he’ll call t’day. Not ta mention, we’ll be here wi’ ye, sure enough.”
Alisha’s jaw tightens. “Fine. But she needs a Xanax and rest now. I’ve seen her like this before. There’s a way to tell her these things without sending her into a full spiral. Next time, you tell me first, Stefan.”
He nods once, slow and shameful. “Aye. Ye’re right. I should’a thought.”
Alisha turns to Brenden. “Take her upstairs. Get her into bed. I’ll come up and help you settle her.”
Brenden scoops me up before I can argue, not that I would. His arms are strong, but his chest is trembling.
He doesn’t say a word. Just carries me through the halls of my home, blurred at the edges, quiet except for the pounding in my head.
In my room, he sets me down gently, peels off my clothes with careful hands. Pants, socks, then bra. Alisha presses a pill into my palm, a glass of water against my lips. I can’t believe I let myself get here. That I allowed myself to react to something as simple as his name.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur to Alisha.
“Swallow, love,” she replies instead of acknowledging my words.
I do.
“There is nothing to be sorry for, Surry. You can’t help what your nervous system does.
You went into fight, flight, or freeze. And this time, your body chose freeze.
But there was nothing you could do to stop it.
For now, just rest. It will help you wake with a clear head and we will plan.
Alright?” She brushes my hair back from my face and kisses my forehead.
The world starts to soften. The edges blur again, but this time, it’s gentle. Safe.
Brenden tucks me in, his hand smoothing my hair back as the blackness creeps in. I hear him whisper something — maybe my name, maybe a prayer.
Then nothing.
A ringing wakes me before the sun moves much. I assume two or three hours I was out. The vibrating get’s louder somehow. Or maybe I’m just more awake. My phone.
For a second, I think I’ve had a nightmare. Then I remember: the panic, the tears, Bridget...
I sit up too fast. My mouth tastes like dust. My head’s thick. I grab the phone without looking and press the green button.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Surry.”
The voice freezes me mid-breath. Smooth. Familiar.
“It’s been so long since I’ve spoken t’ye. Did you miss me, my bride?”
My blood turns to ice.
“Who is this?” My words come out too fast, too shaky. I had just gotten that slightly accented tone out of my head after eleven years of hearing it in my nightmares.
A soft laugh. “Ah, you wound me, mo bhean. It’s me—your loving husband and father of your child. I’ve missed you somethin’ fierce. Are ya ready t’ come home? I think Bridget’s ready for you to come home, too. And it’s time to teach my son to rule with me.”
There’s screaming in the background—muffled, terrified.
“Gavin.” His name is poison on my tongue. I don’t say I don’t have a child, I don’t want to aggravate him any more than he already is. I take a deep breath before continuing. “If you want me to come, you have to stop hurting her.”
“Now, now,” he croons. “That’s not how you speak to yer husband, is it?”
I swallow hard. The years fall away, the fear crawls back into my skin. “I’m sorry, sir. I won’t raise my voice again. Please. Stop hurting Bridget. So I can come to you.”
“That’s my good girl,” he purrs. “Can ye get off the island?”
“Yes,” I whisper. Then correct myself. “Yes, sir.”
“Grand. Then come to Seattle, Surry. Bring me my child. That’s where ye’ll find me–and yer precious Bridget. My men will pick you both up at the port.”
The line clicks dead.
I stare at the phone, my hand shaking so hard it slips from my fingers and hits the floor.
For a moment, I sit there in silence. Then I move.
Fast.
I throw on clothes without thinking–black cargo pants, a black hoodie, socks, my trusty Doc Martens.
My hands move like they belong to someone else.
I shove my sunglasses and phone into my pocket, twist my hair into a messy ponytail, grab the small revolver from my desk drawer.
I shove it in my bra, and make way way toward the stairs.
Every step down the hall feels heavier.
Don’t tell them. If you tell them, they’ll stop you. Bridget dies. You can’t tell them.
The thought repeats, an anchor dragging behind me.
Outside, the air hits like ice. The world smells of salt and pine. My lungs still burn from earlier, but I keep going–down to the docks, down to where the smaller boats are tied.
There’s one with keys still in the ignition.
I climb in, start the motor, and push off before I can talk myself out of it.
As the boat drifts away from the island, I glance back once–at the lights glowing in my family’s windows, at Brenden somewhere up there in the dark.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
I turn my phone to airplane mode so I can use it for music before shoving it in my pocket, and aim for Seattle. I turn my headphones on, and Gethsemane of all songs pours into my ears. Perfect.