Chapter 30
Thirty
EVIE
S herry stares at me like I’m the one who has her wires crossed.
“You said the carton of books arrived before the festival?” I ask.
“Yes, from the publishing house, I assumed, although there was no sender details. I thought it was some kind of promo you arranged.”
“I didn’t, no. And I haven’t heard from Livvy, my editor, for weeks.”
“Oh, well. I guess no harm, no foul. They all sold. One young man bought ten copies. Nice young chap, around your age.”
I look around the library like he could still be here.
“Was he a local?” I ask.
“No, just here for his sabbatical. A few months, I think he said. Not sure if he’s still here.”
“Okay.”
Dammit .
None of this feels right. The fact that someone set up a signing that wasn’t approved by the publishing house, that Livvy didn’t know about, puts me on edge.
“Will you tell me if he comes back?” I ask.
“You’ll want to sign all those copies he bought, I suppose,” Sherry chirps.
Yeah, something like that.
Shit .
“Thanks for your help with the research last month, it was really helpful.” I wander toward the loans desk as Sherry slips behind it.
“That’s wonderful. But what were the Gaelic reference books for? Is your novel set in a fantasy version of Scotland? Oh, that would be something!”
“No, not exactly. But they were helpful. I’ll make sure to return them next week before I go.”
“You’re leaving already? Gosh, we will miss having a writer in residence in our little library. Make sure you come back to visit sometime, okay?”
I huff out a chuckle. “Sure thing, Sherry.”
She shoots me a smile and turns to a patron with an armload full of books to check out. My phone buzzes, and I dig through my bag. Finding paper, I pull it out. And almost drop it when I realize what it is.
The letter Iris gave me on the night of the festival.
I’d been so busy with the signing and with trying to soak up every little experience with Cal before my days here are over that I completely forgot about it.
I wander outside to the bench seats in the garden, the colorful blooms hedging the town center’s water fountain and grass area we sat on at the festival popping from behind the seat.
Flipping the envelope in my hands, I brace for the contents. The emotions that follow opening one of these letters. A prickle of fear washes down my spine as the wind changes. Something like cedar carries on the wind. I slide a finger under the envelope flap.
It sticks and I rip it, wanting this over and done with.
The envelope tears in half. The burned ash of a tiny insect body and tattered wings, now greyed and singed, flutter from the paper tomb.
“Oh!” I slap a hand over my mouth. A torn-up monarch is one thing. The message clear. One burned with cinders for a bed, trapped in an ivory paper crypt, sends a whole other type of message.
I swipe the remnants of insect from my jeans, and the envelope flutters to the ground, the letter inside slipping out.
Reaching down, I clutch it with a shaking hand.
Breath firmly held, I unfold the page.
I close my eyes, not wanting the words to reach my vision. I can’t take another loss. Another traumatic event that sets my life back years.
No, Evie, that is not main character thinking. Not how the heroine would react. She would take the bull by the horns. The page by the edges, her gaze burning so hard it would surely ignite. Setting the ivory pulp into flames.
With that thought, I open my eyes and scan first, lips pursed, frown dipped so low my face hurts.
Bile rises in my throat, burning its way through the air caught on the sob wanting out. I crumple the paper in my hand. Fire floods my veins.
Nothing, no one , will stand in our way of being together.
He means Cal?
He means Cal.
Oh my god.
I jolt from the seat and shove the letter into my bag. This was written—or sent, at least—around the time of the festival.
A matter of days.
Shit!
I sprint back to the marina, fear close on my tail as I desperately search for Cal. For Firefly.
When I reach our slip and the boat floats in its place undisturbed, emotion rushes my senses. I board, tripping over the side. “Cal!?”
The cabin is empty.
He had errands to run.
I press a hand over my chest, trying to calm my bounding, terrified heart.
He’s fine. He will be fine.
Footsteps thunder toward Firefly. I spin back, half expecting some strange face I don’t know to corner me on the boat, then move in and end this nightmare.
Just end it already.
I slam my eyes shut as a man rushes the boat.
Firefly rocks as he boards. I suck in a lungful, bracing.
A whimper slips from me as a hand touches my shoulder.
“Miss Evie?”
Emmett?
Emmett!
I sob, flying into his chest. The fear from the last ten minutes pours out in ugly, soul-racking cries.
“Holy shit, what happened? Where’s Cal?” he says, running a hand over my head in a soothing motion.
I soak his shirt, letting the last six years of heartbreaking torture tumble free.
“Hell, Evie.”
His broad hand rubs circles over my back. I try and fail to compose myself. I can imagine what people are thinking, the tall, handsome, and somewhat taken Coast Guard officer consoling the woman living with his best friend. God.
Ugh. Stupid small towns.
I push out of his hold.
His grip keeps me at arm’s length. “Evie, you okay?”
Nodding, I sniff back the tears. “Fine. Sorry, just had a moment.”
His head tilts. “Didn’t look like a moment.”
I shudder through a breath and set my shoulders back. “I’m leaving soon. It’s a lot, that’s all.”
His face softens, then morphs to a frown. “You don’t have to go. Staying is always an option.”
I shake my head.
No.
No, it’s not.
It’s really not.
“I can’t.” The words choke out.
“Okay, well, if you change your mind, you’re always welcome. And, hell.” He plucks his cap from his head, running a hand through his hair. “I know Cal wants you to stay.”
I frown. “What? No, he doesn’t.”
Em raises an eyebrow. “That so?”
“He doesn’t what?” Cal’s voice cuts into our conversation.
I sag with relief.
Thank god.
“Nothing, forget it.” I adjust my bag over my shoulder and snag Em’s gaze.
He forces a smile and turns back to his friend.
When he disembarks Firefly, he gives me a kind smile and tips his cap.
So old school, that Emmett. It’s sweet. I feel terrible for unloading my baggage on his chest. But I’m thankful Cal wasn’t here.
I don’t think I could explain that one away.
Thankfully, Emmett looks like he’s good at keeping things to himself.
“Get your errands done?” I ask, hoping my voice doesn’t betray me.
Cal steps onto the boat and then into my space. “Yup.” His eyes study my face as if what I’m not saying is printed in Times New Roman all over it.
I feel like it is.
Now, with the last letter and its impending—and very real—threat to Cal, I have to leave. Whether or not Emmett’s offer has any truth to it, I can’t stay.
I made a promise to leave.
And I make a new one to myself right here and now—when I go back to the city, I am going to the police. I won’t make the mistake of keeping this to myself again.
I can’t let anything happen to Cal.
I won’t.
Settling into the cabin, I send my gaze around the marina.
Cal starts the engine, and we glide from the slip.
We clear the last row in the marina, and I glance back toward the Coast Guard building.
The oversized windows reflect the day’s sunlight.
I swear I make out a figure under the overhanging watch room.
The figure holds something to their face.
My gut sinks, churning like I imagine a gazelle’s does when they get their first sniff of lion.
Shit.
Has he been here all this time?
The festival.
The signing.
The week we came to Iris’s for Em’s birthday dinner?
Oh my lord.
Fear shrouds me for the second time today and I grip my bag tight, setting my eyes on the horizon.
The boats that were tampered with... Were they a warning?
Surely, he wouldn’t venture out to the island.
But what if he does?
If he is keeping tabs on me, the only way to keep Cal safe is to leave.
Teeth gritted, I breathe through a curled lip as anger flings through my veins like wildfire.
Fine. He wants me, he’s going to have to come and damn well get me.
In the heart of the city.
When I’m ready.
Surrounded by people.
With the trap baited and set.
I may be just a nerdy author, but my research is extensive. My FMCs have been through much, much worse.
Game on, T.
Cal won’t look at me. He’s been that way since the marina.
“Spill it, McCreary.”
“Nope.”
“Urgh, will you just tell me what’s eating you?”
Now, here in the greenhouse, I stab the soil in the bed for tomatoes with the trowel.
He continues to shovel fertilizer into the new bed he’s prepping for the last half of summer.
He’s tense and far too quiet. Already a man of few words, he’s now down to single syllables.
Short of seducing it out of him, which would be a gross abuse of power on my part, I am left with begging for an explanation.
“Come on, talk about it before it starts taking chunks out of that handsome heart of yours.”
He raises an eyebrow at me.
Okay, not my best word choice. But seeing him upset does something visceral to me.
I abandon the tomato bushes and close in on him, tugging my gardening gloves off. “Please, talk to me.”
He slams the tip of the shovel into the pile of fertilizer. Good lord, it reeks. If it wasn’t so amazing at growing the most delicious food, I wouldn’t support this stinky endeavor.
“You’re not telling me something,” he snaps.
I reel back, jerking my head like he slapped me.
It’s not because I disagree. It’s because by hiding this from him, I feel like I’m lying. Maybe I am. Did not telling Joshua contribute to his death? I guess I will never truly know.
But . . .
“That’s not true,” I hear myself say.
The same go-to answer every time. Avoidance. I’m great at it.
He’s in my space a heartbeat later. “Don’t fucking lie to me, Evie.”
I almost crumble under his scrutiny. But I don’t. The last thing I need is Callum hunting this guy down and getting hurt, or worse. God, I can’t even think about that without panicking.
“I am not. Is this really how you want to spend our last few days together?”
That takes him down a peg. His shoulders drop and he turns back to the shovel at his side.
“No, it isn’t. But . . .”
His throat works.
I touch his arm, desperate to eliminate the distance between us. “What? What is it?”
“Forget it,” he breathes.
Forget it. Just like that.
I guess he’s got a point. No argument we could have holds now. I’m leaving. Everything we could ever fight about is a moot point.
So I turn back to my beautiful crop of tomatoes, admiring all I have done here in nine months.
A yellow butterfly lands on a branch by my hand. Somehow, I have become fond of these pretty little yellow flutterbys.
A tiny, ever so minuscule ray of hope stings my senses.
Maybe one day I will come back.
If my heart can stand it.