But one face stood out: a woman with short white hair, almost exactly like Cynthia’s. It probably wasn’t healthy, this pull toward someone who reminded me of her. Still, I clicked on the woman’s profile and started reading her extended bio.
My eyes drifted to my hands. The rash had mostly faded, but now it was itchy. I resisted the urge to scratch, as if ignoring it could somehow undo it all. It sounded ridiculous, but maybe the woman in my head was right, and I was a little allergic to dogs. I’d never owned one, just occasionally patted the head of a friendly dog on the street. It was logical that I didn’t know about it sooner. Luckily, the allergic reaction didn’t seem severe. I’d try some Benadryl and see if that helped.
“They’re keeping him for monitoring, but Rascal should be as good as new before we know it,” Daniel said from the bathroom.
“That’s great,” I replied. Relief bloomed quietly in my chest. However, my thoughts kept circling back to the woman. The pig statues. And now here I was, sitting in bed, trying to write a message to a therapist who looked like Cynthia, explaining why I was reaching out.
I couldn’t even bring myself to tell the truth here. Not the full version of it. Not yet.
Instead, I sent something diluted. I mentioned childhood trauma and a recent event that I was having trouble processing. That was it: a version of me that wouldn’t scare anyone off.
“I’m sorry this all had to happen literally on the day we got here,” Daniel said as he turned off the bathroom light and walked over to the bed. He slid in next to me. His eyes met mine. “How are you doing with all this?”
Terrible.
“Good. I mean, it was so sad, but Rascal will be okay. So I’m tired, but good. And I just found a therapist. Look.” I tilted the MacBook slightly so he could see her profile.
Daniel smiled. Relief crossed his face that I’d finally agreed to therapy again. To be fair, I’d just witnessed a murder during a therapy session, so I hadn’t exactly been relishing the idea of jumping right back into it.
“I think you’re right,” he said, nodding. “Coming here was a good idea. It does feel like healing.”
I closed the laptop. “I can’t wait to see more of the seacoast. The landscape is just so stunning here.”
“Wait till you’re out there on the Windjammer tomorrow,” he said. “That stretch of coast looks even better from the boat than it does from land.” He pulled me into his arms and held me.
“I can’t wait,” I said softly.
“Mind if I watch TV for a bit?” he asked.
“No, go ahead.”
It was a bad habit, falling asleep to the TV, but it helped with my anxiety. Plus, Daniel liked watching shows at night. The background noise gave my mind something to latch onto, just enough to quiet the racing thoughts.
“Did you take your nightmare meds?” he asked.
I forgot sometimes, and I hated the meds that helped with nightmares, as they made me drowsy. But not tonight. After today, I couldn’t afford that.
“Yup,” I said.
He nodded and reached for the remote.
I closed my eyes, still in his arms. A deep exhaustion settled over me all at once. It was as if my body had made a silent agreement to fall asleep only once Daniel was beside me. As if I needed him there to protect me from myself.
The faint scent of his skin mingled with the hum of the documentary in the background—something about whales. An older man’s voice, warm and soothing, explained that a blue whale’s heart is the size of a small car and beats just five times per minute when it dives.
The words blurred. The sound softened. Slowly, everything around me faded.
Chapter 14
I stepped onto the polished deck of the Windward Belle, a 141-foot wooden windjammer anchored in Camden Harbor. She was a towering beauty, all varnished wood and white canvas sails, rising into the sky like something out of a painting. Today she was taking a group of tourists—us among them—out for a sailing tour along the bay.
The morning air tasted of salt. Somewhere behind me, seagulls called out like gossiping teenagers. A few crew members smiled and invited us to help haul the canvas. I stayed back and watched Daniel step up. The sails cracked open like thunder and caught the wind.
We glided out into sunny Penobscot Bay as the tourists took turns at the wheel. When my turn came, I held the course for a minute, steering us past Curtis Island Light—a white lighthouse gleaming against the cliffs. Seals draped themselves over the rocks like lazy kings, while seabirds skimmed the waves for fish.
It wasn’t even ten in the morning, but people were already sipping cocktails. A couple held champagne flutes as if it were noon in the Hamptons.
Daniel raised a brow at me.
