I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Of my flushed cheeks, tear-streaked skin, hair an absolute mess. I look like someone who’s been shipwrecked. Maybe I have. Maybe this is the island. Or maybe I’m still treading water waiting for the sharks.
I reach out, turn on the faucet, and let the sound of running water fill the quiet.
There’s a small collection of soaps on the counter, allhandmade-looking and wrapped in twine. I choose one that smells like lavender and bergamot, break off a piece, and press it into a washcloth.
Steam rises and I strip off the borrowed flannel and sweatpants, the fabric heavy with everything I’ve been carrying. The cold. The fear. The guilt. The lie.
When I step into the shower, the warmth hits me like a soft exhale.
It’s not just about getting clean. It’s about rinsing away the past twelve hours and grounding myself again after almost drowning in more ways than one. The water glides over my skin, soothing clenched muscles. I close my eyes and tilt my head back, letting it pour through my tangled hair, over my shoulders, down my spine.
For a few precious minutes, I’m not a reporter. Not a liar. Not lost. I’m just Charlotte. A woman who got stuck in a snowstorm and was pulled out of rising floodwaters by the man she came here to investigate.
No big deal.
I dry off slowly, wrapping myself in the soft towel, careful not to rush the moment. I find a spare toothbrush under the sink—still in the wrapper, thank God—and use it with minty toothpaste I fish out of a drawer. I was prepared to smear toothpaste on my finger if needed. Anything to get the slick film off my teeth.
By the time I pull the sweatpants and flannel back on, I feel a little more like myself. Or maybe just a version of myself I’m not entirely ashamed of.
I take one last look in the mirror, breathing in deeply.
Then I open the bathroom door and go to the bed, pulling up the bedding. With one last look I exhale and step into the hallway. Time to face whatever’s waiting in the kitchen.
I ease into the hallway, footsteps light on the wood floor. The scent of bacon drifts my way. I want to go faster, but then I hear it.
Voices.
I slow near the staircase, following the quiet sounds down the hall toward what I assume is the kitchen. I don’t mean to eavesdrop. I shouldn’t. But something in Sam’s tone stops me cold.
“You said she said she’s on vacation.” His voice is low, unreadable.
Phern responds with a snort. “In the middle of nowhere. During a spring storm. Wearing brand new boots with flowers on them?”
A pause. The silence says everything they’re not.
“She’s lying, Sam.”
I freeze.
“I looked her up,” Phern continues. “Entertainment reporter, out of LA. Name’s Charlotte Wilson. She’s got a byline on that piece about you last year. The one about Gwen. The?—”
“I remember.” Sam’s voice is flat. Quiet. Dangerous in its stillness.
“You don’t think it’s a coincidence she just shows up out here, do you?”
Another pause.
And then Sam says softly, “I don’t know what I think yet.”
Something stings behind my eyes. I press myself tighter against the wall, every breath sharp in my throat.
Phern sighs. “Look, I know you’re trying to be kind. I do. But maybe kindness isn’t what she needs right now. Maybe the truth is.”
The scrape of a chair. Footsteps heading toward the doorway.
I move fast, retreating down the hall like a ghost and rounding the corner into the entryway just in time to make it look like I’m arriving fresh, clueless, harmless.
I paste on a smile that feels too tight, too hollow.
