7. June #2
“You need a friend, whether you admit it or not.” He folds his hands on the table, every finger perfectly aligned. “Or, at the very least, someone capable of looking at all the angles you can’t stand to face.”
I’m too tired to argue, so I don’t. My hands are shaking. I tuck them into my armpits, holding myself together as best I can. Gah, I wish I had a change of clothes.
Mark observes this but doesn’t comment. “Tell me what happened.”
I want to lie, but even that feels like too much effort.
“The lighthouse was sold this morning. Out from under me. Had to be Ashton—who else has the cash and the motivation? I went to see for myself. Then I tried to find him. No trace. His yacht is missing, and so is he. I spent an hour calling and searching the docks. It was a waste.” The words spill out, frayed and small.
Mark watches me, weighing every syllable. “And now you’re here. Where it’s safe to fall apart.”
The implication should sting. Maybe it does.
The silence stretches, but I don’t have the strength to fill it. I came here to be alone. If Mark needs to be entertained, he should go across the street to Birdie’s or go back to Boston.
Mark eventually sighs—the kind of sound you only make if you’re about to drop something heavy.
“I’ve been doing some digging since the verdict dropped.
What happened with Ashton’s case doesn’t add up.
You don’t get a full exoneration on federal forgeries and laundering without a body to throw under the bus. ”
My head lolls in his direction, and I finally open my eyes. “What are you saying?”
He leans in, elbows on the table. “Somebody else is taking the fall. Maybe someone in the network, maybe just a useful idiot with a criminal record. The point is, Ashton walks. The rest of the investigation vanishes overnight. It’s too clean.”
I squeeze my fists tight, knuckles aching. “Couldn’t he just be innocent?”
Mark’s smile is razor-thin. “It’s possible. But unlikely. Not unless he got very, very lucky—or made his own luck. The feds don’t take people down unless they’re sure they can make the charges stick and close the case. There’s too much media and bad publicity surrounding that kind of thing.”
My chest tightens, fear threading through every exhausted vein. “So, which is it? Was I being played, or did Ashton…what, bribe someone?”
He shrugs, the motion crisp and casual enough to be infuriating.
“There’s always someone willing to take a payout, especially if they’re already facing jail time.
Or maybe Ashton’s not the brains at all—maybe you were both pawns.
You want my guess? If he’s not answering your calls, it means he’s tying up loose ends.
You’re smart enough to know what that looks like. ”
Whatever adrenaline I have left fizzles out, replaced by tremors running through my arms. My breath comes in shallow, juddering shivers. I feel the blood drain from my face, but I can’t make myself move.
He notices. “You need water and dry clothes,” he says, already pushing himself to his feet. He doesn’t ask. Comes back with a glass and sets it quietly beside my elbow. Then he wanders off again, returning with a Shack sweatshirt.
I stare at it for a second, focusing so hard I almost forget where I am. Then I take it, and he turns around long enough for me to strip out of my cold, wet top and don the fluffy pullover.
Mark settles back in, softer now. “I know you want to believe the best in him. I also know you’re smarter than ninety percent of the people I deal with, but if you haven’t heard from Ashton, it’s because he doesn’t want you involved.
Either it’s to protect you—which is possible—or he’s cutting you loose. Either way, you need to be ready.”
I want to argue, but my body refuses. Instead, I let my forehead drop to the table. “What does ready even look like?”
He lets the question hang for a minute. “It means not letting this destroy you. It means not giving in to the worst-case scenario. You’re a survivor, June. Don’t let any man—especially one like Ashton—take that from you.”
My throat is raw when I lift my head to meet his eyes. “What if part of me still wants to believe he loved me?”
“That’s your prerogative. Just don’t let it blind you.”
I think about that. Really think. About Ashton’s voice, his precision and poise, those moments where it felt like we were the only people on Earth. I set them beside the hollow ache of the lighthouse, the empty dock, the silence on the other end of the phone.
There’s no script for this, no way to tidy it up. The only honest thing in the room is my exhaustion, and maybe the echo of Mark’s cynicism. It doesn’t matter if I trust him—he’s not wrong.
For a while, neither of us speaks.
Eventually, he lightly taps on the table. “You want me to stay until you’re steady?”
I shake my head, barely. “I’ll be fine.”
He hesitates for a long second, then quietly collects his coat and heads for the door. “Don’t lock up alone. If you need anything, call.”
I watch the door close behind him. The light over the register flickers in his wake.
I lean back in my chair and let the quiet have me.
The inside of the Shack glows with a sadness that feels as old as the town, as heavy as the fog on the water. My body’s empty, and my brain’s scattered. But somewhere, tucked under the fatigue and the shivering, there’s a small flame of what Mark said—about surviving. About not giving in.