Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
KIT
Ican’t stop looking, even though it’s making me want to hurl.
That’s Isla there. In garish pixelated colours.
Not the Isla who stood in my kitchen making jam with Maisie. Not the Isla who sang ‘The Parting Glass’ with tears streaming down her face. Not the Isla who told me she loved me twelve hours ago under the harbour lights.
This is someone else. Someone broken. Someone—
Christ.
She’s not looking at the camera in most of them. Her eyes are unfocused, glassy. That’s not a smile on her face – it’s something else. Something that makes my stomach turn.
She’s drugged. Has to be. I’ve seen enough drunk fishermen to know what that looks like, and this – this is worse. This is someone who can barely hold themselves upright.
And he took photos of her anyway.
Marcus fucking Vale.
My hands are shaking. The phone screen blurs.
There are dozens of them. Topless. In a shower. In a bed I hope to God she doesn’t remember. One where she’s leaning against a wall like her legs won’t hold her, and he’s—
I throw the phone across the room. It hits the wall, clatters to the floor.
Jude’s tea comes back up. I barely make it to the bathroom.
When I’m done retching, I sit on the cold tiles, head in my hands, trying to breathe.
Did he drug her?
He fucking drugged her and took photos and now—
Now the whole world is seeing them.
The Daily Mail. Instagram. Reddit.
I force myself off the floor, rinse my mouth, splash water on my face. My reflection in the mirror looks like a stranger. Pale. Hollow. Older than I was ten minutes ago.
I retrieve the phone from where it landed. Screen’s cracked but still works.
The article is from the Daily Mail. Posted at 5 am. Marcus Vale’s team issued a statement: ‘Ms. Quinn was a willing participant in our relationship. These photos prove her recent allegations are false and vindictive. We will be pursuing legal action for defamation.’
Willing participant. I can’t help myself; I scan the top image again.
I want to put my fist through the wall.
The comments section is a sewer. Hundreds of people – thousands – weighing in on Isla’s body, her choices, whether she’s lying or not.
Look at her smiling. That’s not what assault looks like.
Gold digger got caught in her own lie.
She looks pretty willing to me.
Attention-seeking slag.
There are defenders too. People pointing out she’s clearly drugged, that this is revenge porn, that Marcus is a predator. But they’re drowned out by the hate.
I scroll to the top of the article. The photos have been viewed over a hundred thousand times already. It’s been posted for nine hours.
By now, half the fucking country has seen Isla naked.
Including everyone in Sea Salt Bay. Dot. Cal. Tom. Nina. Frankie and Bill, Ayo … Tilly … The Penrose brothers. The Harpers. My brother. My dad.
Everyone we stood with last night, singing for Peter.
Everyone who welcomed her back.
They’ve all seen these.
And Maisie—
Christ, Maisie. She’s eight years old and she goes to school with kids whose older siblings have phones. It’s only a matter of time before someone shows her. Before she sees Isla like this and doesn’t understand, can’t understand, shouldn’t have to understand.
That’s why Isla ran.
Not because she didn’t love me.
Because she knew. She knew the whole village would see these. Knew Maisie would see them. Knew everyone would look at her differently.
And she couldn’t face it.
Couldn’t face me seeing her like this.
I understand it.
I do.
But understanding doesn’t stop the hollow ache in my chest where hope used to be.
She left.
Without waking me. Without a note. Without trusting me enough to let me decide whether I could handle this. She just ran. Again.
I sink onto the bed, phone heavy in my hand. The bed where twelve hours ago she told me she was staying. Where I fell asleep believing her. Where I woke up planning to paint the walls green because of her fucking eyes.
Everyone leaves.
I knew it.
I’ve always known it.
Mum. Isla the first time. Jess. Peter.
And now Isla again.
The only difference is this time I was stupid enough to believe it might be different.
Stupid enough to let myself hope.
Stupid enough to fall in love with someone who promised to stay and didn’t.
A door slams downstairs. Footsteps on the stairs. Heavy. Familiar.
‘Kit?’ Jude’s voice. ‘You okay up there?’
No. I’m not okay. I’m never going to be okay again.
But I can’t say that. Can’t fall apart. Not with Maisie about to wake up. Not with a village full of people who’ve just seen the woman I love violated and exposed and destroyed.
‘Yeah,’ I call back. ‘I’m fine.’
The lie tastes like ash.
But beneath the ash is a volcanic eruption just waiting to explode. It’s festering, building, a pressure pot that’s barely keeping its lid sealed on, because a hammering truth is simmering inside of me, and the evidence of it is printed in garish colours for the world to see.
Fact.
Truth.
I told Isla Quinn to chase her dreams. I sent her off – I let her go.
And I sent her to that.
I didn’t follow. I didn’t chase. I didn’t tell her that I was brave enough to go with her. No, instead I went to Newquay and met a girl to make a new life with.
While Isla never came back.
I hated her so much for it. Not because I’d spent years falling in love with her, two years with her, mine for the summer, only for her to leave me for something brighter and better. I hated her not because she left, but because she didn’t come back, not ever, not once, not even as my friend.
Now I can only wonder if she didn’t come back because of this.
I launch for the bathroom again and throw up into the bowl.
And now, just like with Mum, with Jess, with Peter, I can’t say that I’m sorry. Sorry for not being enough.
The knock comes hours later. How many hours, I don’t know.
I’m still sitting on the bed, phone in my hand, staring at nothing. Jude left after I convinced him I wasn’t going to do anything stupid. He didn’t believe me, but he left anyway.
Now Dad’s voice carries up the stairs. ‘Kit? You up there?’
‘Yeah.’
Footsteps. Two sets. One heavy, one light and quick.
Then Maisie’s face appears in the doorway, school uniform covered in what looks like glue and the wilful trail of half of her packed lunch. Her smile’s automatic – the one she always gives me – but it falters when she sees my face.
‘Hey, Dad.’
Dad’s behind her. His jaw’s tight. His gaze asks: How do you want to handle this?
I shake my head slightly. Not now. Not in front of her.
‘Where’s Isla?’ Maisie asks, looking around the room like she expects Isla to materialise from the wardrobe. ‘Is she at Salt Cottage? Or with Nina?’
My throat closes.
‘Maisie,’ Dad says gently. ‘Why don’t you go get changed out of your uniform? I think your dad needs to talk to you about something.’
Her eyes go wide. That particular kind of wide that means a kid knows something bad’s coming but doesn’t know what yet.
‘Is Isla okay?’
‘She’s—’ I start, then stop. How do I do this? How do I tell my eight-year-old daughter that the woman who did her hair and looked after her while her dad broke down has run away because the whole world just saw her naked and broken?
‘Get changed first, Mais. Then we’ll talk. Okay?’
She nods slowly and heads to her room.
When she’s gone, Dad steps fully into the doorway. Crosses his arms.
‘You seen them?’ I ask.
‘Aye.’
‘And?’
‘And that bastard deserves to rot.’ His voice is flat. Controlled. ‘But that’s not what we’re dealing with right now, is it?’
‘She left.’
‘I know.’
‘Didn’t even wake me. Just – gone.’
Dad’s quiet for a moment. ‘Can you blame her?’
Yes. No. I don’t know.
‘She promised she was staying.’
‘Son.’ He steps into the room, sits on the edge of the bed beside me.
‘That girl’s had her whole life ripped open for the world to see.
Every person in this village has seen her at her most vulnerable.
You think she could look any of us in the eye this morning?
You think she could face Maisie knowing what those photos mean? ’
‘She could have trusted me.’
‘Could she? You spent ten years hating her for leaving the first time. What’s she supposed to think you’d do now?’
The words land like a punch.
Because he’s right.
I did hate her. I did blame her. I never once considered that maybe she had reasons for staying away. Reasons that had nothing to do with not loving me and everything to do with protecting me from seeing exactly what I just saw.
‘How do I tell Maisie?’ I ask quietly.
‘Tell her the truth. As much of it as she can handle.’ Dad’s hand lands on my shoulder. ‘And then you figure out what you’re going to do about it.’
‘What can I do? She’s gone, Dad. She ran.’
‘So did you. Ten years ago.’ His voice is gentle but firm. ‘You let her go to London alone because you were too scared to follow. You going to make the same mistake twice?’
Before I can answer, Maisie’s back. Changed into jeans and her favourite purple jumper. Hair still wild. Face solemn.
‘Okay,’ she says, climbing onto the bed beside me. ‘I’m ready.’
I take a breath. Let it out slow.
‘Isla’s gone back to London, love.’
Her face crumples. ‘Why?’
‘Because … some people have been saying really horrible things about her. Mean things. Lies. And it made her feel like she couldn’t stay here anymore.’
‘What kind of lies?’
‘Grown-up stuff. Complicated stuff.’ I’m fumbling, can’t find the words. ‘But the important thing is, none of it’s true. None of it’s her fault. But people can be cruel, and she … she needed to go somewhere she felt safe.’
Maisie’s quiet for a long moment, processing. Then: ‘Did she leave because of me?’
‘What? No. No, Mais—’
‘Because of what kids might say at school? About the photos?’
Ice floods my veins. ‘How do you know about—’
‘Grandad told me. He said some bad man put private pictures of Isla on the internet to hurt her. And that I might hear kids talking about it at school.’ She looks up at me with those dark eyes that are too old for eight. ‘Is that why she left? So I wouldn’t be embarrassed?’