Chapter Seven
Sylvie
It was supposed to be for a few days.
That was what Wyatt said when he suggested I move into the cottage—easier for research, safer after the tires, more practical than driving out every morning.
I agreed, and neither of us said what we both knew: neither of us was ready to stop.
That was four days ago. Now I have one day left, and I still haven’t found a way to say any of the things I need to say.
We’ve talked. That’s the strange thing. More than I expected, more than I’ve ever really talked to anyone.
We talk about the sea lions, obviously—he knows this island like a second skin and his observations have made their way into my notes more than once.
We talk about his parents, carefully, in the way you talk around a wound you’re not sure is healed.
We talk about my parents, about the non-profit, about what I want my work to look like in ten years.
One night, he told me about the first winter he spent here alone after they died.
I told him about the field trip to Baja when I was eleven that made me certain I’d spend my life near the ocean. Small things. True things.
What we haven’t talked about is this—whatever this is.
What it means that I’ve been waking up in his bed every morning for four days.
What it means that he makes coffee before I’m awake and leaves it black because he’s been paying attention.
What happens in three days when I board a plane to Anchorage and stand in front of a Senate committee with whatever’s left of my research.
Whether there’s any version of after where I come back.
I have fallen in love with him.
When Wyatt offers his hand for me to take, I don’t hesitate.
I sigh when his larger and warmer hand closes over mine, and now, I’m starting to see why my mother forgot her gloves on that trip with Dad.
Sure, it could be chalked up to her clumsiness, which I seem to have inherited, but the warmth of a glove does not hold a candle to how much the man warms me.
I glance up at him as we walk hand in hand down the trail and back to his cottage.
I can’t help but think how darn comfortable this moment is.
With Sabaak running ahead of us, we feel like a family, and a part of me wants it to be so.
However crazy the thought, I can’t help but wonder what it would be like living on Adak Island.
I only have a day left before I need to leave, and I wonder if I could come back after all this is over.
Would Wyatt even want me here?
What if this is something he does with other women who visit the island. Sure, Acca assured me that the man is an antisocial grump, but she can’t be certain that he doesn’t entertain other women in his cottage. Maybe he’s…
Stop!
“What?”
I blink up at Wyatt, confusion clear in my gaze. “What’s what?”
“You said to stop. Is something the matter?”
Sweet baby Jesus, did I say that out loud? Still, a part of me wants to ask him about all the questions nagging me. The insecurities that always seem to pop up at the most inappropriate time. But what if he gives me an answer I don’t want to hear. Maybe tells me this—seducing women—is his thing.
“Nothing,” I start to say but then realize that I might as well talk to him about it. People in relationships talk about this stuff, right? They have to or else they would drive themselves to madness with insecurities, just as I am doing right now. Okay. Deep breaths. “Um, so…”
“Something’s wrong,” Wyatt says in an alarmed voice that takes me a second to realize he’s not talking about our situation.
I turn to find him staring ahead, so I follow his gaze to see Sabaak, whose playful energy seems to have changed.
His ears are perked up, and the happy wagging tail from moments ago has stilled, replaced by a rigid stance as he stares at something near the cottage.
Wyatt is off before I can question it, dragging me along with him, so I force myself to speed up. By the time we make it to his cottage, I’m panting and heaving, my heart burning from the cardio exercise I wasn’t prepared for.
The cottage door is wide open, and we don’t have to look inside to know that someone’s been in there.
Wyatt’s grip on my hand tightens, and he pulls me behind him, putting me between himself and Sabaak as he steps in through the open door.
My heart drops to my stomach as we take in the condition of the living room.
It’s like someone invited a hundred rabid raccoons in here and left them to spread chaos.
The furniture has been overturned, cushions ripped open with their stuffing spilling to the floor.
Drawers from the nearby desk and side tables yanked out, their contents strewn across the floor.
Papers, photos, and personal items scattered everywhere.
As I glance up the stairs that lead to Wyatt’s bedroom, I experience panic unlike anything I have ever experienced before.
“My laptop,” I cry out as I slip away from Wyatt and run toward the stairs, escaping his hands when he tries to grab for me.
I rush into his bedroom to find it in the same state.
My laptop, the one I left on his nightstand after completing my paper this morning, is gone.
And so is the bag containing my hard drive and my notes.
“They’re gone.” I’m surprised at how steady my voice sounds.
Wyatt stops in the doorway to study the chaos, and I don’t have to glance up to see the rage on his face. Not when his body emits it in waves. “It’s that fucking Monteith,” he hisses, rage dripping from his voice like acid. “I’ll kill him!”
“This is all my fault,” I whisper as tears blind me, blurring the scene in front of me.
I know I did nothing wrong, but none of this would have happened if I’d never come to stay with Wyatt.
The frames holding his parents’ photos are broken, and I’m afraid to look too deeply into what else has been destroyed.
“I’m sorry, Wyatt. I shouldn’t have come here. ”
“You did absolutely nothing wrong,” Wyatt says, but before he can turn to me, a loud bark from downstairs distracts him. Wyatt sprints back downstairs, and I follow, swiping at my wet cheeks as I reach the first floor where Sabaak is growling and barking at something outside.
“What is he barking at?” I ask as I rush to the dog, crouching down to wrap my arms around him, burying my face in his fur. The poor thing is no doubt spooked by the state of his home. “It’s okay, Sabaak. We’ll fix the space in no time.”
“Someone is on my property!”
Wyatt’s ragged voice is enough to pull my face from the fur. My head whips up to look around, but the space is empty. Still, Sabaak won’t stop growling. “What, where?”
“In the barn,” Wyatt growls, eyes narrowed to slits as he starts for the door. “Stay here with Sabaak. He could be carrying a weapon, so stay here and lock the door.”
Wyatt doesn’t wait for a response as he storms out of the cottage and stalks toward the barn.
There is a dangerous gait to his step, like a man about to unleash violence, and for the first time, I find myself afraid for whoever is hiding in there.
Still, I don’t want to see Wyatt get hurt, so I turn the order to Sabaak.
“Be a good boy and stay here, okay. I’ll go check on Wyatt. ”
I rush out of the cottage after Wyatt just to spot a man walking around the corner of the barn with a gun in hand. With his back turned, Wyatt doesn’t see the intruder.
I start to scream, the sound caught in my throat just as a flash of white sprints past me.
It happens in slow motion, painfully slow, so that I feel every microsecond tick by.
Monteith raises his gun at Wyatt’s back, but before he can aim, Sabaak lunges at him and bites his arm, causing the shot to go wide. The man drops the gun.
I can’t tell who makes a higher-pitched scream. Him or me. But it’s enough to alert Wyatt. Well, the shot, too.
The sound also seems to alert whoever is hiding in the barn as a bulldog of a man storms out and rushes toward Wyatt, but there’s no taking him by surprise this time.
Wyatt and Monteith’s bodyguard roll to the ground, throwing punches and dodging elbows.
A few feet from them, Sabaak is still on Monteith, foaming at the mouth as he bites the man’s hand.
I look between the two, considering who to help, when the bodyguard lets out a blood-curdling cry, I decide to go with Sabaak.
Without thinking twice, I rush to the pair—man and beast—and grab a board leaning against the barn wall.
I slam it onto Brett Monteith’s back. His head whips around to me, bloodshot eyes locking with mine, and I nearly back away.
But then I remember Wyatt’s slashed tire.
His ransacked cottage and the laptop containing all the information I’ve gathered in the past two weeks.
And with that, rage boils inside of me. I don’t look away.
I let him read it in my eyes, and with all the strength I can muster, I whack him on the head with the board.
His eyes roll back, and he crumbles to the ground.
I turn around, ready to unleash my wrath on the bodyguard when I find Wyatt has already knocked him out. “Get me the ropes from the barn,” he instructs.
I drop the board and rush inside to do as he instructs.
We tie the men’s hands and legs before Wyatt sends me back into the cottage to radio for help.
Within the hour, his property is filled with people: the public safety officer, a handful of men who came to help, and other nosy people who just have to be there for the show.
They track Monteith’s car down the road, and for a hopeful five minutes, I am assured that they’ll find my stolen items and return them safely.
They don’t.