16. June
JUNE
The old lamp over the deck throws his outline into stark relief—rain-damp coat, sharp jaw, a hunch to his shoulders that says it’s been a week, maybe a year, since he last slept.
For half a heartbeat, Meredith doesn’t even breathe. The air shudders around her. Then—snap—she’s all motion, hand flying to the edge of the door, body coiled to slam it so hard the lighthouse might split in half. If there’s ever been a purer distillation of “Not tonight, Satan,” I haven’t seen it.
My hand comes down softly on her arm—steady, not panicked, the way you calm a spooked horse or a sister about to go nuclear. My fingers squeeze warning into her skin. Please don’t. Not yet.
The shape on the threshold resolves. Of course it’s Mark. Of everyone who could haunt us on this wind-stunned night, it had to be him.
He stands just outside the door, letting silence do what words wouldn’t dare. His face is a map of exhaustion, stubble ghosting his jaw, eyes locked on Meredith with an intensity that’s all business layered over something messier.
He doesn’t flinch when he catches her inferno stare; he just lifts his hands, an offer of nonviolence. “I’m not here to fight,” he says, voice low, meant for her and her alone. “I’m actually not here for you at all. I just came to deliver news…for June and Ashton.”
No one else speaks.
So, I do. “Come in, Mark,” I say, not exactly warm, but not cruel. Whether Meredith wants to see him or not, I want to hear what he has to say. “You look like death warmed over, and I’d rather not have a scene on the porch.”
He steps inside, slowly and carefully, but he does it.
The wind ricochets off his back, and the door shuts behind him with a click that feels final.
He doesn’t pause at the entry—doesn’t wipe his shoes or flex for effect, just takes in the temperature of every corner of the room. Admittedly, it’s pretty cold.
Ashton plants himself next to my elbow, a wall of starched shirt and calculation.
His eyes move over Mark with surgical cool, but I can feel the twitch of his muscles—every inch of him vibrating with the urgent need to control the threat.
He doesn’t touch me, but he may as well be drawing a line in salt across the floor.
Danny and Trent have gone abruptly silent, eyes wide and darting. Danny stops chewing mid-bite; Trent’s hunched, hands locked, every muscle pulled tight. Even Rebecca, who likely has no clue what’s going on, seems to be on the edge of her seat with anticipation of what’s about to unravel.
I try to let the moment ease, but it’s like coaxing a hurricane into a half-hearted drizzle.
Mark shrugs off his coat, draping it over the arm of the nearest chair. The gesture is too casual. Too practiced. His suit is wrinkled, the collar open at the throat, but even exhaustion can’t quite erase the old power dynamic—he’s the shark, and we’re supposed to be the chum.
“So,” I say, forcing my voice to sound brighter. “If you’re not here to drag up the ghosts, did you track us all the way out to Tom Nevers just to say goodnight?” I don’t want to think about how he found us. He always finds me.
His mouth twitches; it’s almost a smile, but it dies before it reaches his eyes. “I heard the view was worth the drive.”
Meredith snorts, no humor. “Cut the banter, Mark. You said you had news.”
His gaze hangs on hers. Then he scans the room, reading every reaction. “I just wanted to let you all know that I’m not staying. In Nantucket, I mean. This was a courtesy call—and a chance to close the loop.”
The words are like a rug yanked out from under the whole group.
For a second, Meredith’s jaw drops. It’s not often she’s caught off guard.
He sees the effect. Allows it to sit.
I’m the one to clear the path because some things aren’t about Meredith or her past relationship. “If you’re leaving, does that mean the feds are finished? Or are we just pretending the last six months never happened?”
Mark’s hands go to his pockets, but he reconsiders. Instead, he folds his arms, anchoring himself in the entryway, not taking a seat. As if the room itself is hostile territory. “There’s an update. I’m not sure you’ll love it, but it’s official.”
Across the room, the boys shift. Danny edges sideways, giving him a wide berth; Trent stares at the floor, as if the tension alone might snap his spine. Rebecca is just gaping at the scene in front of her, eyes darting to whoever speaks.
Meredith recovers first. “So, tell us,” she snaps. “Or are you waiting for the feds to break down the door?”
It almost makes me laugh—the way my sisters can out-alpha even the most seasoned predator. But Mark doesn’t bristle. If anything, he looks relieved that someone else is steering the ship.
He steps all the way in. Nobody offers a chair. The entire room is one giant pressure cooker; Eddie stands in the back like a bouncer, arms crossed, chin lifted, daring Mark to blink.
Ashton’s grip is light on the back of my shoulder, but it’s a point of contact—subtle but clear. His loyalty is visible, even if his words aren’t.
I try again, softer, my patience waning. “If you’ve got something, say it. Please. We’re too tired for riddles.”
That gets him. He nods, a single, slow dip—almost a bow to the inevitable. “Right. It’s about the forgery case. The last chapter, as it were.”
My heart ticks a little faster. I know Ashton can feel it; his hand is a radiator at my back.
The group adjusts on a dime. Meredith takes two steps closer, deliberately planting herself where she can catch every nuance. Eddie mirrors her, like some kind of living force field. Ashton just tightens at my side.
Mark inhales and releases it in a jagged breath. “The short version is that the focus isn’t on you. Or Ashton. The investigation’s pivoted for good. You guys are in the clear. That’s all I came to say.”
The relief is a punch to my lungs, sharp and instant. My knees nearly wobble. But I catch myself and force a smile—albeit thin, but alive.
I gesture toward the empty seats around the battered coffee table. “You can sit, if you want. I promise not to poison the drinks.”
Mark ignores the offer of the couch, standing like he’s briefing a jury. “I can go into details, if you want. But if not, as I said, I’ll be out of your way for good soon. I’m sorry if I’ve overstayed my welcome.”
The silence that follows is not comfortable, but it’s honest. The truth was, he was never really welcome to begin with, but he’s done a lot for me. I hope Meredith recognizes that.
I let it sit, breathing in the salt of rain and fear and whatever passes for peace in this family.
Because for the first time, I think we might be okay.
For a minute, anyway.
The room doesn’t deflate so much as it recalibrates—like a needle twitching to true north after a brush with a magnet.
Mark angles toward me, his gaze telegraphing “private word?” as clear as a shouted request. But before he can pivot, Meredith plants herself in the gap.
Her arm brushes mine—territorial, no-nonsense.
Ashton’s shadow follows, cool as glass, flanking my right.
I’m boxed in, a weird comfort. Whatever Mark’s selling, he’s not getting me alone to hear it.
He huffs, almost amused by our choreography. “I didn’t come here to orchestrate a sidebar.” Instead, he squares up, his professional mask back in place. “The feds have someone in custody.”
The words hit like a tide.
Meredith leans in, sharp as a blade. “Who?”
His lips twist, but there’s no triumph in it.
“Everwell Development. The parent company—the same ones who tried to push the Shack and Birdie’s out with those bribes, shady permits, and rezoning.
Their CEO has been indicted, along with two or three underlings.
It’s all on the federal docket as of this morning. ”
The surprise is so real it’s almost physical. Ashton exhales, the sound barely audible, but I catch the shift in the way his fingers brush mine. Meredith is locked on Mark like she’s cross-examining a hostile witness.
I find my voice. “Wait—what about Richard? If they’re bringing down Everwell, Richard’s got to be on the radar, too. He was intimately involved in all of that. He took bribes and wrangled the town council. Is he in handcuffs yet?”
A ghost of a smile—sad, almost gentle—crosses Mark’s face. “No. Richard’s not in the dragnet, at least not yet. They’re focused on the out-of-state stuff. The big conspiracy, the shell companies. Whatever tip was shared with the feds was enough to burn Everwell. No one else.”
Meredith’s glare could shatter glass. “So, Richard gets to skate? After everything he’s done?” She’s mad, but her anger is directed at the wrong person. For once, Mark isn’t a guilty party in any of this.
He shrugs, palms up. “Unless his name shows up in the next round of filings, he’s on the sidelines.
Whoever called in the tip was smart—dropped just enough to sink Everwell without implicating any of the local partners.
Prosecutors love a tight case. No loose ends, no complicated Nantucket politics.
They want the big guns, not the small-time locals. ”
My gut twists, but not in the way I expected. I want to be angry, but mostly, I’m just relieved. I shoot a glance at Ashton; he’s still, hyper-controlled, not daring to break the illusion of calm. But his eyes meet mine, and what’s there is pure, raw relief.
Without thinking, I reach for his hand. The pressure in my chest untangles. Ashton’s thumb traces my knuckles, quick and shy. It’s a secret touch, invisible to the room.
Mark notices it but doesn’t comment.
Meredith keeps digging. “You’re sure the case against Ashton is dead?”
He nods. “Stone cold. Ashton’s name has been filed into an audit folder somewhere in D.C., and unless there’s some wild new evidence, that’s where it’ll rot. June, you’re officially off their radar, too. The only headlines left belong to Everwell.”
I sag, knees weak, spine softening a fraction. Months of dread melt into something closer to exhaustion. “So, what now? They just…wrap the whole story up with a bow?”
Mark almost laughs, but it’s tired. “If the feds can get splashy charges and a clean conviction, they’ll take it.
Everwell is big game. They’ll chase their own tail for a few more months, but you two”—he points, briefly, to Ashton and me—“are in the clear. I wish I had the details about the whistleblower, but exonerating your names was my only priority.”
The words don’t feel real. I anchor myself with another squeeze of Ashton’s hand, grounding in the simplicity of this one, perfect fact—it’s over.
Meredith, ever the skeptic, has one more bullet in the chamber. “And you’re positive Richard’s not lurking somewhere in the docket?”
Mark shrugs. “If he was, I’d know by now. The tipster was anonymous. If Richard’s name isn’t in the paperwork, he’s not in jeopardy. Not for this, at least.”
That last stinger lands, but it’s just background noise.
Finally, Meredith drops her arms in exhaustion, not surrender. “So that’s it. All this, and it’s just over.”
Mark spreads his hands, nodding. “That’s all she wrote.”
I absorb it. The gravity, the weird vacuum left behind. All this time, we survived on adrenaline and fear. Now—just stillness. We’re free. Or as close as we’ll ever be in this life.
Mark stands, for a heartbeat, surveying the space as if memorizing it.
The fatigue in his posture isn’t theatrical; it’s final.
He puts on his coat and smooths the collar with no drama at all.
“That’s all, then. I’m staying for the Westmoor Gala, but after that, I’ll be out of your hair and heading back to Boston. ”
I watch him cross the room, his shoes whispering over old pine boards.
At the threshold, hand on the doorknob, he pauses. Then he turns back—not to the group, but to specific faces. His gaze lands on Meredith. The mask slips, just a little. Enough for regret to edge his voice, tight but sincere. “I wish you the best in life, Meredith. I really do.”
She doesn’t answer. But something in the way she holds herself is less stiff, more…weathered. Like the battle wasn’t for nothing.
Next, his eyes flick to me, then to Ashton. “If you need anything—truly—you know how to reach me. Don’t hesitate.” He doesn’t wait for approval. He just steps outside.
The door closes behind him. No one moves. We’re suspended, caught in the quiet, the wind off the ocean rattling behind the silence like an afterthought.
Part of me expects him to reappear. To say he forgot something, one last warning, or to twist the knife. Old habits die hard. But he doesn’t come back.
Nobody celebrates. Nobody cracks a joke. Instead, we soak in the fragile peace—like maybe, against every odd, it might actually last.
And if a little hope creeps in, wet, salt-stained, and brand new, I don’t push it away.
For once, I let it stay.