She squeezed his hand—once, twice—as if trying to grab his attention, but he refused.
“I can’t,” he whispered.
“You can’t what?”
“Look at you right now.”
And then slowly, she released him, and the seconds of silence followed like an unspoken conversation. She knew then; she would’ve had to have known.
They fell out of communication after that night, and Logan questioned whether it was his failure to be honest with her or the fact that neither of them had truly moved on. He allowed the distance, chalking it up as something they both needed. And once again, time slipped into its cycle, the months dissolving faster than he could keep track of.
It wasn’t long before his work began hinting at something more permanent, and casual remarks in meetings turned into formal discussions. His progress had been undeniable. He’d made breakthroughs that turned heads, and it had helped him rediscover a love for neurology that had started to wane. Meanwhile, the charity back in the UK was thriving under new leadership. It was, by all accounts, the perfect time to start fresh. But a part of his story still felt unfinished.
“You seem hesitant,” Kyle said one afternoon, leaning against the doorway of Logan’s office like he owned the place. Kyle always spoke like he knew exactly what you were thinking, and that whatever it was, it couldn’t possibly rival the brilliance of his own thoughts. Logan had never really warmed to him. He’d always come across as cold, all intellect and no emotional intelligence. But his understanding of the brain was unmatched by anyone Logan had ever met.
Logan laughed softly, running a hand down the side of his jaw. “No, I’m definitely interested.”
Kyle raised an eyebrow. “But?”
“But...there’s a lot to consider.”
Kyle scoffed lightly, pushing off the doorframe and strolling into the office uninvited. “Consider? What exactly is there to consider? You’ve got a world-class lab at your fingertips, unlimited research funding, a team that actually listens to you, and let’s not forget, the food here is incredible. The women are stunning. You’re making more money than most people in our field will ever see in their lifetime. What more could you want?”
Logan arched an eyebrow. “There’s more to life than that.”
“Oh, come on,” Kyle said, waving a hand. “Isn’t it always cold and raining there? I’ve been to London twice. It’s a miserable place.”
“I like the cold,” Logan replied dryly.
Kyle smirked. “We’ve got offices in Minneapolis.”
Logan couldn’t help but laugh again, shaking his head. “Look, I’m heading back to London for a week next week. I’ll have my decision to you by the time I get back.”
From the look on Kyle’s face, he clearly wasn’t thrilled about the delay, but if life had taught Logan anything, it was that nothing good came from rushed decisions. If he was going to make it work, he had to be sure.
XXXVI
DAISY
They had spent the bank holiday in Devon, hoping the change of scenery might lift Callan’s mood, but nothing seemed to break through. He remained lost, always drifting somewhere just out of reach, his mind far away. She, too, found herself lost in thought, wondering about the story behind those silences, attempting to make sense of it all. Whether he’d realised it or not, Ida’s growing energy only seemed to deepen the shadow of darkness around him. She would flit about, babbling without a care, while Callan merely watched her, his eyes fixed, his face unreadable. No smiles, no warmth—only that same cold distance that had begun to feel like the only part of him that remained.
A month later, Russell asked her to attend a three-day conference in New York, and she hesitated. She’d never left Ida overnight before, and she and Callan’s mother had yet to truly speak about Callan’s suicide notes. Though he’d seemed to worsen, it was as if they had agreed upon a code of silence, knowing that no amount of words would change their reality.
“You should go,” Callan’s mother said when she mentioned it. They were in the kitchen, Daisy dicing vegetables while Callan’s mother seasoned chicken drumsticks.
“I’ll be fine with both of them.”
She shot her a wary glance. “Are you sure? It’s three days.”
In truth, she felt selfish. Callan’s mother never got a break; she was with him twenty-four hours a day, and the idea of spending three days in the city that never slept, free of responsibility, felt indulgent.
“Daisy, go. I won’t be around forever. Without sounding morbid, you need to take these opportunities while you have the chance.”
Even as she stood at Heathrow, waiting for her flight, she felt a sense of unease, as though the future version of herself were screaming at her, trying to send telepathic warnings through the nausea churning in her stomach.
Due to a storm in the Atlantic, her flight had been delayed by a few hours. She tried to work, hunched over her laptop in the departure lounge, when she saw him two rows over.
“No way,” she whispered under her breath.
