11. Sophie
SOPHIE
The windows of the Shack are black mirrors—outside, nothing but sand and the echo of my own reflection. Inside, it’s just me and the ghosts of dinner, cleaning up after a day that had chewed me up and spat me out.
The place smells like shellfish, butter, and a little bit of old hope.
I wipe down the last table, taking my time with the edges.
The rag is warm and damp in my hand, and the circles I scrub into the surface are unnecessarily forceful, but that’s how you get the grit out and maybe some of the edge.
If I could erase all the Shack’s scars one wipe at a time, I’d stay here all night. Maybe forever.
The lights are off in the dining room, except one over the kitchen pass—soft-edged, yellow, like a beacon for the lost. I leave it that way on purpose. The darkness takes the edges off the age, making it look nostalgic rather than rundown.
I step behind the counter and pop open the ancient register, the drawer sighing out like it’s relieved to be done for the day. I count the money, and when every bill is lined up and the receipt paper tidy, I press the lock with my knuckle. Another day survived.
I barely have time to set the cash bag in the safe before the bell over the door shudders the whole room.
June arrives first. Her hair’s all over the place, and her eyes dart around the dim space—searching, always. She barely hesitates at the threshold before making a beeline for our booth. Meredith follows. They look like sisters caught at opposite ends of a storm.
“Wow, you came fast,” I say, my voice bouncing too loud in the empty room.
June shrugs, blinking hard. “You got my text.”
“I did, but I figured you’d want to sleep before reliving your entire train wreck of a night.”
Meredith snorts as she slides in beside me, the vinyl singing a high, tired note. “She hasn’t slept in weeks. And it’s not a train wreck if you walk away from the crash.”
We all cram in. The booth’s too small and the table too low, but there’s comfort in the squeeze. I pull my knees up so June has room. For a second, it’s just the three of us, pressed together.
June runs her hands over the table, fingers twitching. “Okay,” she says. “Full debrief. I’ve spoken to Ashton. I went to the dock when I saw his yacht was back in his slip. And then I waited by the steps. For hours. But that’s not the point. The point is…we talked. Finally.”
Meredith’s mouth tightens, but she doesn’t interrupt.
I lean in. “Did he tell you how he got the charges dropped?”
June cracks a smile, but it’s more of a flinch than anything. “Apparently, his exoneration is just as much a mystery to him as it was to us. He swears he doesn’t know who pulled strings, what those strings even are, or why the case against him disappeared overnight.”
Meredith scowls, her lawyer brain chewing the corners off the story. “That’s impossible. Nobody gets away clean unless they’re rolling over on someone else. Or unless someone with heavy leverage is moving pieces in the background.”
I whistle. “You sure he’s not just lying to you? Maybe he’s protecting himself.”
June hesitates. The light glances off her cheekbones, catching the faint blue under her eyes. “He didn’t feel like he was lying. He looked…bad. Not put together, not the way he usually does. I think he was hurting, too. And I believe he thought he was protecting me by not reaching out sooner.”
That puts a note of silence on the table—one I don’t know how to dismantle.
Finally, I break. “Well? Did you at least get something out of it?”
She shrugs, her laugh weak, but I can’t tell if it’s just weeks of emotional turmoil that have taken their toll or her being leery of our response. “We talked until our throats hurt. He swore he wanted me, even after everything.”
There’s a beat. It’s a heavy, pregnant pause. And I see Meredith doing her best to hold in whatever it is she’s preparing to say.
“But—” She flushes, staring at her hands. “We didn’t…do anything. I mean, I didn’t even kiss him. After all this.”
Wait. Stop the world.
My jaw unhinges—actually gaping. “You didn’t kiss him? After all this time? After a year apart, after federal indictments and tabloid headlines and, oh, I don’t know, enough tears to float a boat? You didn’t kiss your husband?”
She’s blushing hard now, and I can tell she’s struggling with the emotional weight she’s been carrying that she feels like she can finally put down. “It didn’t feel right. Not like that, not yet. I needed to know I could be around him without falling apart.”
Meredith nods, approving in that way only a big sister can—full of logic and a touch of pride.
She leans across the table, threading her fingers with June’s, and I can tell her mind had shifted from whatever big-sister advice she had been prepared to share.
“Smart. These things stick to your ribs. You can’t just jump back in because the turbulence passed.
You need to choose him, or not, for the right reasons. ”
June’s mouth pulls into a line—sad, maybe. Or relieved. “Yeah. That was kind of the point. I didn’t want to lose control. Not again.”
I shake my head, still shell-shocked. “So, what now? You just do this weird emotional slow dance until someone cracks?”
She almost laughs. “If that’s the plan, I’m definitely leading.”
Silence hovers. It’s heavy but not entirely unwelcome.
Then Meredith says, “Look, if this is going to hang over us, we need to know who else is in play. If someone torpedoed the case behind the scenes, who was it? And why?”
I nod. “Right? It doesn’t sit well with me. Ashton walks, but someone else takes the hit? Who benefits from that?”
June’s voice goes small. “Mark said there might’ve been a fall guy or a scapegoat. He said that in these kinds of cases, someone always gets the short end of the stick. The question is, how did that shift from Ashton to someone else, and no one knows about it?”
“Mark would know.” Meredith’s voice turns cool, analytical, already mapping timelines. “But if he’s right, who could it be? Ashton had so many connections, so many people in the art ecosystem. Any one of them could’ve been set up to take the heat.”
I tap a finger on the saltshaker, thinking it through. “Maybe someone in his gallery circle? Or even a client? Maybe some big Manhattan player we’d never see coming.”
June shakes her head, hair falling in her face. “It wouldn’t be someone big. It would be someone easy to ignore. Someone with just enough dirt on them to stick—but not enough that the feds care about the headlines.”
“That’s so bleak,” I mutter.
“That’s how the world works,” Meredith says with such finality in her tone that it almost sounds like a gavel hitting wood. “The people with money and power never pay in full.”
We sit with that for a while. The booth is quiet, the kitchen bulb buzzing behind us. I can feel the gears turning in all our heads, trying and failing to solve the puzzle.
After a minute, I ask, “Does Ashton have any clue? Did you press him?”
June picks at the edge of a napkin, shredding it into curls. “He claims he doesn’t know. I truly believe Ashton doesn’t know what happened.”
Meredith exhales through her nose. “How convenient.”
“Maybe,” June says. “But he seemed…angry. Like he hated being in the dark.”
I want to push, but the fatigue wins. “So, we have nothing. Just a guy who shows up at your door, makes your heart do dangerous things, and then leaves you to pick up the carnage.”
June barks a laugh. “I mean, he gets a little credit for coming back post-carnage, but yeah, basically, that’s the story of my life.”
I squeeze her arm, gentling my next words. “He’s not the only one who doesn’t know what happens next.”
Meredith nods, squeezing June’s hand again. “That’s why you don’t rush the first kiss.”
I shake my head, grinning despite myself. “If I’d been in your shoes, I’d have tackled him onto the dock and made the neighbors call the Coast Guard.”
June looks at me, rueful…or perhaps a bit of hope; I can’t tell which. “Maybe next time.”
There’s a pause, three-way, thick as chowder.
I lean back, the vinyl creaking under my spine. Then I look at each of us—banged up, alive, still sitting at the same table, still fighting for a future that isn’t guaranteed.
The questions hover, unanswered.
Who bailed out Ashton? Who gets the hammer next? I can’t help but wonder who we are without these disasters gluing us together. Since we all got back together, it’s been one catastrophe after another. What if that’s what’s binding us?
I let the quiet linger, watching June’s face as she dices up the night’s drama for us. But eventually, the need to solve things itches through me—I can’t let a puzzle sit unassembled.
“So…if we’re really stuck, who else would know how these cases work?” I look at Meredith, raising my eyebrows. “Have you tried asking Mark?”
The air changes instantly.
Her posture sharpens, spine arrow straight. “No. Absolutely not. I am not talking to Mark about this, or anything else, ever again, if I can help it.”
“That’s not what you said last time…” I prod, because it’s practically my job to needle.
She raises both hands, palms out, buying herself space. “I mean it. There’s nothing he’ll say to me that’s worth the headache. Or the fallout.”
But I know how this works. “He’d tell you. He always does when you press. He won’t give June or me the time of day when it comes to anything real.”
June nods, backing me up. “He’s obsessed with you, for one thing. And, for another, you’re literally the only person who can out-maneuver him. He basically worships your legal brain.”
Meredith shakes her head, hair slipping from its perfect twist. “I can’t. Not even for this. Because if I go to him, it’ll cause problems with Eddie.” She looks away, voice going softer, like she’s embarrassed by the honesty. “Now that we’ve decided to move in together…”
My jaw locks. The gears in my brain seize up. For a second, I swear the whole world holds its breath.
June’s eyes go cartoon-wide. “You’re moving in together?”
Meredith flushes—God, she actually flushes. “Official as of this week.”
“Since when?” I say, half-laughing, half-gasping. “When—how—what happened to taking things slow?”
“This is slow. For us.” She’s almost shy about it, which feels like borrowing someone else’s sister. “We’ve talked about it for months.”
I nod, picturing Meredith actually at home above Birdie’s—a queen on her throne, looking out over her kingdom of misfit drunks and lobster traps. “So, you’ll be able to walk to the Shack in less than sixty seconds. I don’t know if Siasconset is ready.”
She laughs, rolling her eyes. “Maybe I’m not, either. But it’s time. Eddie needs someone to keep him from living off beer nuts.”
I claps my hands, too excited to contain myself. “This is huge, Mer. We have to celebrate.”
June bounces in her seat. “I’ll bake a pie. Or—better—Meredith’s favorite brownies. The ones with the sea salt.”
Meredith’s smile lingers, softer now. “That would be nice. It’s been a long year. I’d like to have something worth marking.”
I shake my head, catching their attention. “I meant more like going to Birdie’s for a drink.”
They laugh in unison, then June’s eyes brighten. “That’s an even better idea. Let’s go.”
Meredith grins—honestly grins—and for the first time all week, I don’t want to run. I just want to freeze this minute, bottle it, and keep it on the kitchen shelf for whatever disaster comes next. Because there will be another disaster. There always is.
Right as I set my hand on the table to slide out of the booth, the front door creaks.
It’s slow but loud, deliberate, like the start of a horror movie.
The bell above it rings, not a happy jingle but a warning.
I hadn’t locked the doors because I was waiting for June and Meredith, but the sign clearly says we were closed.
All three of us turn at once.
Mark stands in the threshold, caught between the shadows and the kitchen glow.
He looks exactly like he’d been scripted for a melodrama.
His coat is perfectly pressed, his expression set just shy of smug, his eyes sharp as pins.
For a second, he doesn’t move. Just takes in the room, the leftover plates and scrubbed-down counters, the three Holloway sisters wedged into a booth like we’re conspiring.
He lets the moment build. He always does. Mark is nothing if not theatrical.
Meredith goes stone still, and June’s hands fist on the table.
No one speaks, so Mark finally steps forward. The squeak of his shoes is loud over the hush. He closes the distance with effortless confidence, like he’s always belonged here—a king walking into his own court.
Except he doesn’t. Never has. Never will.
He stops at the edge of our booth. “Ladies, I hope I’m not interrupting.”