33. Charlotte Gallagher
Charlotte Gallagher
It’s been a month since the detectives sat in our house and questioned us, and the world still hasn’t lost interest. If anything, it’s leaned in further, hungry for more.
The police visit made headlines within days.
Siblings Stranded Together for Fourteen Years Questioned by Detectives.
That was enough to keep it going, one story feeding the next until we stopped being people and became something to be picked apart.
I don’t understand the obsession.
I’ve tried to, turning it over in my head more times than I can count. There’s no sense in it, so I’ve stopped looking for any.
What I do know is that Dane isn’t happy, I’m not happy, and the life we came back to isn’t something either of us can endure for much longer.
I’ve been watching him for weeks. He hasn’t said it out loud, but part of him is suffocating.
Something’s got to change.
There’s a conversation we can’t keep avoiding.
I’ve been putting it off for two weeks, hoping for another answer to appear. One that doesn’t ask anything of us. One that doesn’t hurt.
It never came.
The lawyer said it plainly: separation—even temporary—removes the central concern. It won’t stop the attention, but it will redirect it.
She said it like it was simple.
And she’s right in a way I can’t argue with. I’ve known it since she said it, and I haven’t brought it to Dane because I know what it will cost him to hear it.
He’s at the table with his coffee when I come downstairs. He looks up as I walk in, and something in my face gives it away straight away.
He sets the mug down. “What’s wrong?”
I sit across from him. “We need to talk about something.”
He waits.
“I’ve been thinking about what the lawyer said—about how it would be best if we separated for a while.”
He starts to respond, but I shake my head and push on before he can.
“She’s right. There’s logic in it. This won’t go away while we’re living together all the time. People have decided there’s something to look at. They’ll keep looking until we give them a reason not to. Separating is the only way to end this.”
He doesn’t say no straight away, and that gives me enough courage to keep going.
“I would never choose to be apart. You know that. But this isn’t about what you or I want anymore. It’s a little time apart now, or we stay trapped in this house until they tire of our story.”
“How long?”
“Six months. Maybe less, if something else steals their attention. But I think we should plan for six.”
He looks at me. There’s something in his expression I almost never see—hurt, plain and undisguised.
“Six months,” he says. “That’s a long time.”
“It’ll feel like forever while we’re apart, but it’ll pass.
And when it’s done, whatever the police think they’re looking at will either show itself or it won’t, and we’ll know where we stand.
We make the sacrifice now so this stops.
So they lose interest. Then we sell the house, take the yacht, and go wherever we want.
Live however we want. By then, the world will have found something else to fixate on. ”
“I stay here, and you go somewhere else?” He drags a hand over his face. “Where?”
“Somewhere quiet, where we’re not… a thing. Maybe New Zealand or Fiji. A place where people aren’t invested in us. Somewhere we might actually want to stay when this is over—not just wait it out. Maybe a home base between sailings.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t like it, Char. Not one bit.”
“I don’t like it either.”
“You’d be on your own, and I’d be here wondering if you were safe every second of every day.”
“Try framing it differently, like I’m not leaving. I’m just going ahead of you to find the place we will land when this is over.” I hold his eyes. “I’m not walking away from you, Dane. I’m setting something up for us.”
“That’s my job—finding a safe place for us. That’s—” He cuts himself off and groans. “Fuck.”
“You’ve always made sure I was safe. Maybe now it’s my turn.”
I wait for him to tell me all the reasons this won’t work.
They never come.
“Let me do this for us. Let me find it, set it up, and have it ready for when you can come to me.”
He looks away for a moment, jaw tight, turning it over.
“I can do this, Dane. You know I can.”
“I know you can.” No hesitation. “You’re the strongest person I know. That’s not the issue.”
“Then let me do this for us and for what comes next.”
The silence stretches between us, but it isn’t empty. I can feel something shifting in him, settling. I don’t push. He needs to get there on his own.
“Six months,” he says.
Not a question. A decision.
“Six months,” I agree. “I won’t be far.”
“Where you are doesn’t matter if I can’t see you.”
The words tug at something in my chest and almost make me smile.
“We’ll talk every day.”
He studies me for a long moment, and I know that look. His decision’s been made.
“Six months and I’m out,” he says. “I’m done. I don’t care what’s still going on. I’m getting on that yacht, and I’m coming to you.”
“Six months,” I say. “And I’ll have a place ready for our new life.”
He pushes to his feet and closes the distance between us before I can say anything else. His arms wrap around me, pulling me hard against his chest. I go willingly, burying my face against him as he holds me like he’s already counting the days until he can have me in his arms again.
He tightens his grip.
“I’m going to hate every second we’re apart.”
“I know,” I whisper. “Me too.”
For a moment, neither of us says anything. There’s no fight left, no argument still waiting to be won. Just acceptance. Just six months standing between the life we have now and the life we’re trying to build.
And somehow, that feels survivable.