Chapter Twenty-Six. Ingrid
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
INGRID
The air still thrums with leftover nerves, but Kennedy Claire doesn’t miss a beat, clapping her hands, corralling the mothers with her usual pageant-director smile.
She reminds them of ticket deadlines, of Thursday’s stage setup and Friday’s final rehearsal, of all the little details that make the pageant run, as if order can be rebuilt by sheer force of will.
As I watch Kennedy Claire beam and flutter, her little jab at Cat still weighs on me.
Those two never got along in high school.
But calling her out like that in front of her daughter, when Cat is clearly sober and trying to get her life together?
That was a low blow, even for Kennedy Claire.
One by one, people gather their things, drifting toward the doors. By the time I step outside, the parking lot is a shimmer of sunlight and movement—car doors slamming, engines coughing awake, teenagers spilling across the asphalt in bursts of chatter.
I spot Travis Magnuson, leaning against his truck, a little island in the sea of teenage girls who’ve swarmed him.
They’re all talking at once, asking about stage presence, public speaking tricks, anything that buys them a few extra minutes of his attention.
Their laughter follows them as they peel away in twos and threes, still whispering and giggling about him.
When the last of them drifts off, he’s left alone next to his truck, jangling his keys. I sidle up, my eyes darting to make sure no one is watching.
“So, Thirst Trap Travis, I hear? Nice to meet you. I’m Ingrid.”
He smiles slyly. “Mr. Magnuson, actually.”
“About last night…” I drop my voice, the humor sliding out of it. “I have some complicated things going on. I’d appreciate it if you kept things quiet.”
He lifts his hands, like it’s none of his business. “Can I get your number?”
I can’t help a laugh escaping. I cross my arms and squint at him. The charming ease of his smile tells me he hasn’t heard the word no many times in his life. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-seven,” he says.
“I’m not twenty-seven,” I deadpan.
He leans casually against the truck. “Do women your age still eat dinner?” He hands me his phone.
I sigh and lean up against the truck beside him, take the phone and type my number in, against my better judgment.
The thing is, when I was in my twenties, I would have run from a man like Travis, would have smelled the heartache coming from a thousand miles away.
I chose stability, practicality. If I didn’t take risks, I couldn’t get hurt.
I gave up my dream of being a photographer and opted for an office job with good insurance.
I dated Joel because he was solid. He was dependable.
Until he wasn’t.
“I’m not saying yes,” I say, but a smile still twists my mouth as I hand the phone back to him.
For a moment, we stay there, leaning together and looking out over the Amenity Center parking lot, the construction site, the rolling hills in the distance, and the river.
The sheriff’s cruiser is still parked in the lot, and I can see Abel in the back seat, head hung low. The scene inside had been chaotic, but the thing that had shocked me most was Abel himself. Like a man scooped out, replaced with something haunted.
I can’t help thinking of him as he used to be.
A second father. Or, at least, a grumpy, well-loved uncle.
He’d complain nonstop about the kids floating the river and leaving trash along the bank, but he was the one who stocked the inner tubes, driving downriver to collect the strays and hauling them back up to the entrance.
He let us ride in his truck, Izzy and me trading off who got the prized spot on the bench seat beside him.
He was the man who tossed us Dr Peppers after long swims, who brought us faded towels, who taught us how to gut a fish, guiding our hands so the knife didn’t slip. The man who taped a Polaroid of the three of us to his fridge, Izzy in the middle, smiling like she owned the sun.
I push myself off the truck. “See you around, Mr. Magnuson.”
He chuckles, and I head to my own car. Travis has already driven away, and I’m just cranking my engine when I see the rusty pickup pulling up the road. It parks alongside the sheriff’s. A knot rises in my throat. My palms are slick with sweat. I know I should leave, but I can’t help watching.
The driver’s door swings open, and Ben Sherman steps out.
For a second, something in my chest misfires.
I’ve spent twenty-five years believing that Ben killed my sister. And that belief became the foundation of everything else.
Then that invitation arrived—BEN DIDN’T KILL IZZY—and it is like the ground under my feet has turned to quicksand.
My hands tighten on the wheel as I watch him talk with Sheriff Ryan.
The sheriff opens the cruiser door, and Ben helps his father out of the back seat.
He holds Abel’s elbow with a tenderness that hits me like a punch.
A version of Ben I thought I’d buried flickers back to life—the gentle one, the loyal one, the boy who combed the tangles from his sister’s hair, who caught me round the waist on the slick river stones before I could fall.
And I hate it. Hate the confusing, chaotic tilt-a-whirl of it all.
When Ben looks over in my direction, something in me breaks.
I floor it, and I don’t look back.