Chapter 2
ISLA
My spine spikes pencil-straight as the area code blazes across my screen.
Wildhaven.
Those three numbers sear into me like ancient scars reopening—panic waking up under my skin.
The urge to hurl the phone against the wall swells, a tempest barely contained, and it takes every shred of my willpower not to give in.
Instead, I inhale deeply and hold the breath for a count of five before releasing it slowly, like I’m forcing air through the narrowest straw. The technique steadies me.
Barely.
The illuminated cassette tape icon on my screen taunts me as a gnawing awareness festers beneath my ribs: I need to face whatever’s on that recording.
And I will. Just not yet.
My hand tremors as I shove the phone into the drawer and seal it away with a tense, deliberate click.
Compelling myself onto legs that feel like jelly, I take two brisk laps around the nursing station, flailing my hands like I can shake off the adrenaline clinging to my skin.
Washington, Adams, Jefferson, Madison, Monroe, Quincy Adams, Jackson, Van Buren, Harrison, Tyler. By the tenth president, my nerves have eased just enough to form coherent thoughts.
Then, a sharp crash erupts down the hall, followed by the shrill wailing of monitors.
My badge swings against my chest as I sprint into room 3A. Connor’s body jerks uncontrollably, the metal frame of his hospital bed groaning beneath each violent movement.
He’s having another seizure—a bad one.
I snatch the rescue nasal spray from the drawer and angle his shoulder, guiding him onto his side. His limbs thrash, heels kissing the sheets, breath stuttering as the spray atomizes in his nostrils.
I check my watch, counting the seconds.
The seizure crests, then slowly loosens its grip as his body softens. I glance at the monitors where his heart rate and oxygen are stabilizing.
After rolling him onto his back, I administer the medication through his IV. After a few moments, he blinks with groggy, heavy-lidded eyes, offering me a lopsided, half-drunk smile.
“Will you marry me, Isla?”
A smile tugs at my worry. His proposal is a familiar ritual. Comfort, in a strange way.
The first time he asked was a year ago, when he became lucid after a prolonged seizure. Star-crossed lovers, he’d said, citing our age difference with his sixteen-year-old Shakespearean theatrics.
“Good to have you back,” I whisper, cooling his forehead with a cloth.
“How long was this one?” he slurs.
“Two minutes and thirty-two seconds.”
“I’m tired…” His voice trails as his eyes flutter closed.
“Sleep,” I murmur. “You’re okay now.”
His breathing settles into an easy rhythm. I stay until I’m sure, then wander back to the nurses’ station. My gaze drifts to the pink pastry box that some kind family left behind. The donuts radiate temptation.
In the rare moments of silence, they call my name.
“Islaaa…you know you want me,” the crumb donut whispers seductively, mocking my exhaustion.
I’ve been on my feet since seven this morning, and the end of my twelve-hour shift is still hours away. Pediatric nursing is not for the faint of heart.
Needing caffeine more than temptation, I turn away from Mr. Maple Bar and his friends and head to the break room for coffee.
The rich aroma lifts my spirits as I mentally sift through my to-do list: call the doctor, update charts, and—unavoidably—deal with that voicemail. A cold unease slithers up my spine.
With coffee in hand, I settle at my computer, ready to chart Connor’s episode.
My phone rattles again inside the drawer.
I ignore it. Again.
At six thirty, Erin struts in wearing pink scrubs decorated with cheerful Winnie-the-Poohs. Her bright smile softens the hard edges of my day. She opens her arms, and I melt into her hug—the kind only a best friend can give.
“How was your day?”
“It could’ve gone better.” My scrubs suddenly feel too tight, too itchy.
“Something happened with one of the kids?”
I shake my head. “It was quiet. Connor had a seizure, but it was not the worst. He’s been sleeping for a while.”
Her brows pinch. “So what’s wrong?”
“I got a call from home.”
Erin freezes. “The home you refuse to talk about?”
“Yep. That one.”
“Who called?”
“I haven’t listened yet.”
“Why not?”
“I couldn’t.” I bite my bottom lip, grounding myself with the familiar sting.
“You want to listen together?”
For a moment, I consider it. But something in me insists the breaking needs to be done alone. I need to be under my own blanket, on my own terms.
“No,” I say gently. “After the shift report, I’m going home to shower first. I’m not ready.”
She squeezes my hand. “Promise you’ll call me if you need anything.”
“I will.”
Twenty minutes later, I grab my bag, wrap my cardigan around my waist like a soft shield, and tell her, “Keep an eye on Connor for me.”
The cool evening air hits, and the city’s chaos crashes over me—honking horns, shouting strangers, ambulance sirens weaving through hilly streets. I find the noise comforting on most days. It drowns me out. I’m no one here, and I prefer it that way.
Yet, tonight, the fog creeps low, seeping into my clothes and bones. By the time I reach my apartment, I’m so wrung out I could collapse on the linoleum. But the hot shower wins.
Steam washes away the day before I slip into soft pajamas and wander into the kitchen. Food sounds worse than listening to the voicemail, so I settle on chamomile tea.
Cradling the mug, I drift through my tiny apartment until I stand in front of the closet, staring at the old hatbox on the top shelf.
Balancing on tiptoe, I hook my fingers under the lid and nudge it forward. It tumbles into my arms with a solid thump, sending up dust that makes me sneeze four times in rapid succession.
“Bless me,” I mutter to myself.
I lift the lid, revealing the handful of scraps I’ve kept from the life I left behind.
Tonight, with Wildhaven echoing in my head, I reach for the Polaroid on top. It’s the last one ever taken of Luke Wild and me. The only thing of him I still have.
Memory crashes in like waves against the San Francisco shoreline.
I’m fifteen the first time Luke Wild actually speaks to me—on a night when I’m convinced I’m invisible to the world.
I sit at the edge of the dock, knees tucked under my chin, gray hoodie zipped tight to my throat—a thin mist curls off the lake like smoke from dying embers. My breath shudders from the fight with my mom.
She’s been gone half my life—chasing parties, distractions, anything but me. Tonight her words hit like darts, each one embedding itself somewhere I can’t reach.
A long creak groans across the dock. My heart slams into my ribs. I swipe at my cheeks with damp sleeves and turn.
He steps out of the dark.
Luke Wild.
Taller than rumors, broader than whispers. Hood up, hands shoved into his sweatshirt pocket, shoulders heavy like he’s dragging something behind him.
For a moment, I think I’m imagining him—the boy too bright, too unreachable.
Then he lifts his eyes.
And he sees me. Not the girl with the absentee mother. Not the hallway shadow.
Just…me.
It hits with a force I’m not ready for.
He steps closer, the dock groaning under his weight. “Hey…you okay?”
His voice is low, unexpectedly gentle. Something inside me cracks right down the center.
“I’d rather not get into it,” I manage.
“Fair enough.” He nods to the space beside me. “Mind if I sit?”
I should say no. Protect what’s left of me. But I nod.
He drops down two planks away, close enough that warmth radiates from him and pushes back some of the cold sinking into my skin. My heart flutters wildly.
“You been crying?” he whispers.
I tense, prepared for mockery, but it never comes.
Nerves surge, and my brain betrays me. “Did you know a horde of rabbits once attacked Napoleon? Like—aggressively.”
He blinks. Then laughs—bright and surprised. “You’re kidding. That’s not why you’re upset, right? Or are you a huge Napoleon fan?”
Heat crawls up my neck. “I tend to blurt out random history facts when I’m nervous.”
A slow, warm smile. “You like history?”
“I love it. How can we know where we’re going if we don’t understand where we’ve been?”
He doesn’t laugh. He offers a thoughtful nod.
I look out over the water until my heartbeat settles. “Why are you out here?”
He hesitates. “Why are you?”
“I asked first.”
“Technically, I asked first.”
I almost laugh. Instead, I surprise myself. “My mom said she wished she had another life. One without me.”
His jaw flexes. His fingers curl tight around the dock’s edge. He goes so still it feels like the night holds its breath.
“People say shit they don’t mean,” he murmurs. “Especially when they’re hurting.”
“How do you know?”
His voice roughens. “Because my dad says things too. Things he can’t take back.”
My heart twists. The Wilds always looked perfect—money, status, matching smiles.
“What did he say?” I ask in a whisper.
He stares at the glassy water. “That I’ll never be enough. Not unless I follow the path he chooses.”
His voice cracks—not a sound, but a feeling. And suddenly his heaviness makes sense in a way words can’t explain.
“Well, aren’t we a pair?” I say quietly. “Two broken teenagers on the same rotten dock.”
He gives me a ghost of a smile, green eyes glinting.
Without thinking, I shift closer until my shoulder brushes his. I expect him to pull back, but he doesn’t.
He leans—barely, imperceptibly—toward me, breath loosening, body uncoiling.
I’ve never been this girl—the one who reaches for a boy. But something about him pulls me in, lights a warmth in my belly I didn’t know I could feel.
We sit wrapped in charged silence—two kids carrying too much, orbiting each other for the first time.
He studies my face in the moonlight. “I’m glad you’re here.”
I gnaw on my lower lip. “Why?”
“I thought I wanted to be alone tonight. But sitting with you…isn’t so bad.” He nudges my sneaker. “And I’m glad you’re not alone either.”
We stay until the moon climbs high and our hurts soften just enough to breathe again.
When he stands, he hesitates. Then offers his hand.
I slide my fingers into his. He holds them warm and steady—like he’s afraid to squeeze too tight, but more scared to let go.
“I’ll walk you home,” he says.
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.” His thumb brushes my knuckles. “I want to.”
He walks so close that our arms nearly touch. My breath never fully settles.
On my porch, he pauses. “Tell me another weird history fact?”
A blush flares. “Romans used crushed mouse brains as toothpaste.”
His grin is instant—like I’ve gifted him something precious. “Meet me at the lake tomorrow night?”
My pulse stutters. “I’ll be here. Just…don’t leave me sitting alone.”
His lips ghost across my cheek—barely there, yet deep enough to brand me.
“Never,” he whispers.
The photo staring back at me shows two teenagers, rosy-cheeked and beaming on graduation day—drunk on dreams and each other.
Now, as I meet those green eyes frozen in time, I wonder if Luke ever chased his dreams. And if he could ever forgive me.
A pit settles in my stomach. The girl in that picture thought she had her life mapped out, Luke at her side. She knew nothing.
With a heavy sigh, I tuck the box away, then curl beneath my quilt.
It’s time.
My stomach churns as I press the speaker on the voicemail.
“Ms. Rae, this is Alan Gordon, an attorney in Wildhaven…” His voice crackles through static and distant gravel sounds.
“Your mother retained my services to handle her affairs in the event of her death. I’m sorry to tell you this over voicemail, but your mother has passed away…”
The words don’t hit—they sink. Slow, heavy, inevitable. Like they’ve been waiting years to find me.
“Please call me back…”
“Death?” I whisper. “In the event of her death.”
I listen again. And again.
“She’s gone.” The words scrape out of me. I’m not angry. Not sad. Just…numb.
If life has taught me anything, it’s that grief isn’t a scream. It’s a suffocation you don’t notice until you’re gasping.
By 9:20 PM, I’ve made my decision. It’s too late to call back. I text Erin, crawl under the blankets, and hope sleep brings clarity.
It doesn’t.
I jolt upright, sweat-slick skin clinging to my pajamas, heart pounding so hard it aches. My breaths hitch and rasp, lungs refusing to fill.
I stumble to the bathroom, flick on the light. My damp hair clings to my face; red blotches mar my chest. I plunge my face into icy water until the world steadies.
The nightmare always starts the same.
Flames crackle. A woof as the fire grows. Heat licking walls, crawling across the ceiling. The chemical burn of the smoke stings my eyes.
I drop to the floor, crawling blindly, shoulder slamming into furniture, knees aching. I can’t find the door. I press my shirt to my nose as thick phlegm blocks my throat.
This could be it. I’ll never see Luke again. I could have stopped this, but I refused to listen.
Shaking, I meet my reflection again. I look like hell. Secrets do that.
I didn’t lose my life in that fire. But sometimes, I think I died there anyway.
It’s time to face the past—everything I’ve avoided, everything buried so deep only nightmares touch it.
I grab a sheet of paper and sit at my small dining table. My hand moves before I fully decide anything.
I write Erin on the envelope. And beneath it:
Open this letter if I don’t return from Wildhaven.