Chapter 18
Morning light filtered weakly through the kitchen window, pale streaks lying across the wooden floor.
Gabriel sat at the table, absently pushing his spoon around his bowl, the low hum of the kettle filling the quiet house.
Chep lay curled at his feet, breathing slow and steady – a calm that only made the restlessness in Gabriel stand out more.
Another night on call.
Another broken sleep.
This time, a car accident. A family had lost control on a bend, veering off the road and slamming into the bank. When Gabriel arrived, he’d braced himself for the worst. The wreckage had been brutal – twisted metal, shattered glass – but somehow, they had all survived.
The father with broken ribs.
The mother with a fractured arm and pelvis, maybe more.
The boy in the back seat with blood running from a cut above his eye.
And the little girl.
Gabriel closed his eyes for a moment, seeing her again as he’d lifted her from the wreck, her small body trembling against his chest. No injuries. Just shock. Too lucky. As if the whole family had been handed a second chance.
He should have felt lighter.
Instead, the tension still sat in him, coiled and tight, refusing to unwind.
Restless, he abandoned his half-eaten breakfast and headed for the shower. The water came out scalding, but he didn’t turn it down. He let the heat bite into his skin, scrubbing at his arms and chest as though he could rinse away the weight of the night.
But it wasn’t just last night.
Dressed in jeans, he paused in front of the mirror. His gaze dropped to the jagged scar on his stomach. Without thinking, his fingers traced it – twisted metal, twenty stitches, a line that would never quite fade.
Some things healed.
Some things didn’t.
His throat tightened. That scar was all that was left of it.
The memories came anyway.
The too-bright hospital room.
Sorcha bursting through the doors, breathless and pale.
The doctor’s voice – kind, careful, final.
Their parents hadn’t made it.
It had been them ever since. Just him and Sorcha.
Gabriel breathed out slowly, pressing his palm flat over the scar before turning away.
He pulled on a T-shirt, layered a jumper over it, grabbed his dad’s old walking stick and stepped outside, Chep trotting eagerly at his heel.
The air had that sharp, waiting feel to it – the kind that meant weather was gathering.
The forecast might have said otherwise, but Gabriel had learned not to trust it.
He checked the radio. He checked the app for emergency crews.
Still, he trusted his own body most.
Like his father, and his father before him, he could read the sky. He could smell snow before it fell, feel storms building in the weight of the air. And today, everything in him said a wild night was coming.
Best to get the sheep under cover.
He stepped onto the worn cobbled lane outside Braemar House, a solid old stone place that had once been part of a grander estate. Now it was just his. Chep darted ahead, ears up, zeroing in on a cluster of seagulls fighting over the remains of someone’s late-night chips.
The dog lunged, scattering them all but one stubborn gull, which stood its ground for a few seconds before finally flapping off with an offended squawk.
“Don’t wind them up,” Gabriel muttered, though Chep was already trotting back.
A passer-by tipped a hand in greeting. Gabriel nodded, the familiar rhythm of small-town life easing something in his chest. His father had been the same, known by everyone, even if he never remembered all their names. Gabriel managed with a smile and easy talk.
“To be a braw day,” the man called. “They say it’s going to be a belter.”
“Better get the trunks ready,” Gabriel said with a grin even though he knew better.
By nightfall, the wind would have stripped every bit of warmth from the air.
The path skirted the edge of the golf course before dipping into woodland. He could have taken the van, but this walk always settled him – gravel crunching underfoot, the dull crash of waves beyond the cliffs, leaves floating overhead.
When they reached the field, the sheep were already drifting towards the gate until Chep leapt onto the low wall, sending them into alert stillness.
“Now, don’t wind them up, Chep. You’ve got mischief in you today,” Gabriel said, shaking his head.
He leaned on his stick, scanning the flock. The grass was still good, but if his instincts were right, it wouldn’t matter. Better to move them closer to shelter, to the land his brother-in-law let him use when needed.
A sharp whistle and Chep was off, circling them with smooth, practised control.
Gabriel watched, listening to the wind.
Once the sheep were settled, he started home, then stopped. Rather than looking at Braemar House, his gaze drifted left. The cliff walk stretched away, and from here he could see a few cars parked below.
Erica.
His stomach tightened.
If the storm came in hard, she’d need to know. The cottage might not stand up to it the way his place would. He pulled out his phone, but with the signal up there …
Better to go in person.
She hadn’t asked. She wouldn’t.
He turned to the cliffs.
When he tapped on the door, she answered with a bright, welcoming smile.
“What a busy morning!” she said, stepping aside to let him in. “I was just thinking I needed a coffee break.”
The warmth of the kitchen wrapped around him – coffee brewing, the Rayburn ticking softly, Lucky curled in his usual spot like he’d never moved.
“Although,” Erica added, already reaching for the plunger, “maybe we should take them outside. It’s a beautiful day.”
She poured a mug for him without asking how he took it.
Gabriel watched the dark coffee swirl pale. Something in him didn’t settle right – not displeasure exactly, just the faint sense that her mind was somewhere else, already moving on to the next thing.
“You said you were having a busy morning?” he asked, keeping his voice light.
She smiled. “Oh. Yes. And you might be a little cross with me.” Her eyes flicked up, almost playful. “I found those carvings. Pretty remarkable, actually.”
His shoulders went tight.
“And, well, it’s opened up a can of worms,” she went on. “I was on a podcast earlier, discussing it.” She checked her watch. “Which reminds me, I must prepare soon – I have another one later today.”
“A podcast?” Gabriel frowned. “Where are you doing them?”
“Here.” She laughed. “I have internet now – the works.”
Something in his chest dropped.
“You what?”
“It was easy, I called a company, they sent someone out. Now I don’t have to go to the bottom of the hill to check an email or make a call. It’s bliss.”
The mug was suddenly very warm in his hand.
“But … this cottage doesn’t have internet,” he said carefully. “It never has.”
“Well, it does now.”
A cold thread slid up his spine.
It wasn’t just that they’d never managed it. It was that every time his father had tried, something had gone wrong – wiring burned out, generators failed, money vanished into repairs that never fixed anything. The cottage didn’t want to be connected. That was what his father had always said.
And now Erica had done it in a single phone call.
“That was the whole point,” he muttered. “This place wasn’t meant for that.”
Her smile wavered. “Oh. I thought you just meant it was difficult to arrange. I didn’t realise it was … intentional.”
Gabriel set the mug down, harder than he meant to. “It was intentional,” he said. “If I’d wanted it connected, I’d have done it years ago.” He dragged a hand over his face. “You don’t know what you’ve just stirred up.”
“I-I didn’t think—”
“No, you didn’t,” he cut in. “You just went ahead and did what suited you. That’s what people like you do.
You come in, decide you know better, and change things without ever stopping to ask if you should.
” The words surprised him with their force.
“And now you’ve dug up those carvings as well,” he went on, his voice roughening. “Why couldn’t you leave it?”
Silence fell between them.
He turned away, jaw tight. He hadn’t meant for it to come out like this. But it was all tangled together now – the stones, the internet, the way she’d been so quick to dismiss what he’d told her.
When he looked back at her, his voice had dropped. “Those carvings aren’t nothing. Everything that ever went wrong here started with them.”
Erica folded her arms. “Gabriel, that’s just superstition. They’re marks in a stone. History.”
“How do you know?” His voice rose despite himself. “My dad tried, alright? Over and over. Things broke. Money disappeared. Nothing stuck.” He swallowed. “And then there was the crash.”
She looked at him, suddenly still. “What crash?”
“Never mind.” He turned away. Too much already.
But she was watching him now, really watching, as if the shape of the story was beginning to form.
He grabbed his jacket. “You think everything can be fixed if you just push hard enough,” he said. “Good luck with that.”
The wind caught the door as he yanked it open.
It slammed behind him, the sound cracking through the cottage as he stepped straight into the strong breeze.