32. Dane Gallagher
Dane Gallagher
We planned for three days on the yacht and stayed five. Running low on supplies is what finally pushed us back to Brisbane.
Five days wasn’t enough. Not even close.
Out there, something shifted. Not in my head—in my body. It stands down. There’s no fence line to watch. No drones. Just open water, horizon in every direction, and the work of keeping us moving. Peace—the kind you can only find when no one can reach you.
The nights on the yacht gave me the best sleep I’ve had since we left the island. Charlotte got some too—I can tell by the way she breathes when she’s truly asleep, not half-alert, not waiting for something to go wrong.
But here at the house, that’s gone.
We’re staying in Brisbane a few days for one reason and one reason alone.
Charlotte booked an appointment with a gynecologist and informed me she was going alone. If we were recognized, having me there would only draw more attention.
I don’t like it, but she’s right. So I don’t argue. I hand her cab money and watch her go.
I head to the marina. When thinking stops being useful, I work. It’s where I go by default.
At the yacht, I move through everything—bilge, engine, fuel lines, rigging. Not just checking it. Learning it. Getting a feel for it. Hands on all of it.
I’m eager to get back out there. Simple as that. Whatever comes next for us involves that boat.
When Charlotte’s cab pulls up at the marina, I feel it straight away—something in me easing the second I see her.
She steps aboard with her hands in her jacket pockets, cap still pulled low.
“Hey, babe. How’d it go?”
“Exactly how you’d expect. A lot of questions. A lot of lying.”
She takes off her cap and shakes out her hair. “I told them I was assaulted by the men who killed our parents and that’s how I fell pregnant.”
The story is plausible, and there’s no way to verify it.
“Did she believe you?”
“I guess. She asked if I wanted to report it. I said there was no point because it was so long ago and I didn’t know who they were.” A pause. “She recommended I see a therapist.”
After everything we’ve been through, both of us could probably benefit from therapy.
“Do you want to see one?”
“No point. I couldn’t be honest about anything.”
“And the birth control?”
“Handled. I told her my periods are all over the place and painful. She prescribed the pill and said it should help.”
Something in me eases.
A baby isn’t something we can carry right now. Not here. Not like this.
“Good. At least that’s settled.”
She nods, but something’s off. I know her. And I know what’s bothering her.
Birth control makes it real. It closes that door—for now, at least.
“How long do you want to sail this time?” I ask, spreading the charts across the table.
“Forever.”
No hesitation.
I look up at her, and she holds my gaze, meaning every word.
“Where to?”
She’s quiet for a second. “I want to find the island. I need to visit Connor.”
I always knew we’d go back one day. Just not this soon.
In my head, it was something further down the line—after we’d had time, after things settled. Not now. Not while everything still feels this close.
She’s asking me to take her back to the only place she still has him.
“I’ll need time to do it right. Charts, weather windows, island chains. I’ve got a rough sense of where we were, but I need to go over it. Make sure.”
“Take the time you need.” She reaches out, resting her hand on the chart. “I’ll handle supplies.”
For the next week, I’m at the table for hours—charts, weather systems, satellite maps spread out and marked up. Cross-checking everything against what I remember.
It doesn’t come back clearly. Not like that. It’s pieces. Instinct more than memory—the way the water moved, wind patterns at certain times of year, distances that feel right or wrong without me being able to explain why.
Slowly, it starts to take shape.
I think I can find it.
Charlotte handles the rest. She orders everything and has it delivered. We don’t step foot in a store again. She plans for time—real time. Protein. Shelf-stable food. Medical supplies. Backups for the things we didn’t have before.
I watch her work, and it hits me—not for the first time—that she’s the most capable person I know.
And I didn’t always see it.
Back on the island, I spent years keeping us alive. Somewhere along the way, I missed the fact that she was the one keeping us together.
By the end of the week, thanks to Charlotte, the yacht is fully stocked.
And we leave in the morning.
The knock comes at seven thirty-two in the morning. I know because I check the monitor before opening the door. Habit now. Two people I don’t recognize stand back from the gate.
I open it.
“Morning,” the man says. He flips open a badge just long enough. “Detective Harris.”
The woman beside him does the same. “Detective Collins.”
I nod once.
“We’d like to come in and ask you some questions,” Harris says.
I step back, and they walk in without hesitation.
“Had a report come through,” he goes on, like it’s routine. “Just need to make sure everything’s all right here.”
Collins is already looking past me, taking in the house. “We’ll need a quick word with you and Charlotte. Separately, if that’s okay.”
I don’t know what any of that means. Don’t know what I’m supposed to push back on, or whether pushing back makes it worse.
So I let it happen.
They split us without discussion. Charlotte goes with the female officer, and the male officer follows me to the sitting room.
He sits, notebook open, pen ready.
“What is your relationship with Charlotte?”
“She’s my sister.”
He writes it down.
“How long were you on the island?”
“Fourteen years.”
“That means you were there from the time you were what age?”
“Twelve.”
“And Charlotte?”
“Eleven.”
“And during that time—what was daily life like?”
“Work. Food. Shelter. Keeping things going so we could survive.”
He nods, writing again.
“You’re aware of the images of you and your sister circulating online?”
“I’ve heard.”
“Can you explain them?”
“I don’t know how to explain something that isn’t real.”
He nods, his pen continuing to move.
“Do you have a romantic or sexual relationship with Charlotte?”
“No. Of course not.”
He writes that down at the same pace.
“You’ve never forced or pressured Charlotte into anything sexual?”
“No! She’s my sister.”
His eyes drop, and he keeps writing.
Then I hear her. Not the words at first, but the shift in her voice through the wall—higher, edged, and strained.
I keep my eyes on him and my breathing steady.
Then Charlotte’s voice carries into the sitting room.
“My brother did not rape me!”
Something tightens in my chest, not because of the words, but because she has to say them out loud while someone writes them down.
“He would never force me to do anything!”
Harris is watching me, but I don’t react.
“My brother has not brainwashed me!” A beat. “I’m done answering your questions! I want you to leave my house! Now!”
Silence. Then movement—chairs scraping back and footsteps crossing the floor.
Harris closes his notebook.
“We appreciate your cooperation,” he says, standing. “At this stage, there’s no evidence of a criminal offense. We just needed to conduct a welfare check on Ms. Gallagher.”
He heads for the door, then pauses. “We may be in touch again.”
They leave, and the house goes quiet. But it’s not the same quiet.
I stand there for a moment, stunned.
We may be in touch again.
What does that mean?
Grandad answers on the second ring.
He listens without interrupting. When I’m done, there’s a brief pause, and then he moves straight to solutions.
“You’ll need a lawyer. I have someone. I’ll make the call.”
Charlotte stands across the kitchen, watching me.
“Don’t speak to the police again without legal counsel present,” he continues. “And stay put. I’ll let you know what our next move is after I speak with my lawyer.”
The line goes dead.
Stay put.
I look at Charlotte. She looks back.
The yacht’s ready—stocked, fueled, and waiting—and staying put isn’t something either of us was counting on.
But we stay because we’ve been given no other choice.
The lawyer arrives—Ms. Bennett. Early forties. Precise. Dark suit, nothing unnecessary.
She’s already taking notes before she’s properly seated. Then she gets straight into it—clear, controlled, no wasted words.
Welfare concern.
Mandatory reporting.
Preliminary investigation.
I sit across from her and try to keep up, but this is all new to us.
“What happens next?” I ask.
“We wait.”
I hold her gaze. “That’s it?”
“For now.” She turns a page. “If they escalate, it’ll likely be more interviews or formal statements. With counsel present.”
“And if they don’t reach out?”
“It fades.”
I nod.
“We were planning to sail for a while.”
“That would be inadvisable.” No hesitation. “You should remain accessible.”
“Seriously?” Charlotte looks at me, then back at Ms. Bennett. “For how long?”
“Unfortunately, I can’t give you an exact timeframe at the moment.”
I let out a slow breath.
This is un-fucking-believable.
“Surely we can’t be expected to stay here indefinitely.”
“Charlotte is free to go, but you leaving would raise concerns.”
Lines form on Charlotte’s face. “But Dane hasn’t done anything wrong.”
Ms. Bennett shakes her head. “I’m only telling you how it’ll be perceived by the authorities.”
“I won’t leave without him. We haven’t been apart in fourteen years. We’re not starting now.”
Ms. Bennett removes her glasses and sets them on the table. “And that, Ms. Gallagher, is part of the problem. I’ve only just met you, and already it’s clear that the bond between you and your brother is unusually intense.”
Charlotte glances at me, her composure slipping.
“The two of you living together, on your own, in a private home and keeping to yourselves reinforces what people already think.” She folds her hands. “It’s not a crime. But from the outside, it looks unusual. It draws attention.”
Charlotte’s eyes flick to mine, and I catch the increasing worry there.
“I don’t care what people think. We’re not separating.”
“I’m not instructing you to,” Ms. Bennett says. “But I am asking you to consider how it reads.”
Grandad’s been quiet until now. “Rebecca, what would you do if they were your kids?”
She meets his gaze. “I’d separate them, and let the pressure ease.”
“No,” Charlotte says again.
Ms. Bennett nods, like she expected it. “Then this won’t resolve quickly. Not while things look the way they do.” She closes her notebook. “You should think about that.”
Grandad stands when she does. “Thank you, Rebecca.”
“Of course, Michael,” she says, gathering her notebook and sliding it into her bag. She gives a brief nod to the room. “Contact me immediately if you hear from them again.”
Separated from Charlotte—there’s no version of that I can picture.
Fourteen years of knowing exactly where she is, every second of the day.
I don’t know how to exist without her next to me.