The knock at the door startled all of us. Dylan was the closest, and he swung it open.
Two strangers stood there—a man in uniform, and a woman holding a small folder pressed to her chest. They both had the kind of expressions you only ever see in moments when words are about to shatter someone’s world. I felt like I was watching a movie, and dread bled through me.
“Mr. Whitman?” the man asked, scanning the room. “Everett Whitman?”
When he saw Camden’s dad rise from his chair, his face tightened.
“I’m afraid we have some difficult news,” he said.
The woman stepped forward, her voice gentle. “Your wife, Stella—there was a car accident. She didn’t survive. I’m so sorry.”
For a beat, everything froze. The drawings lay scattered on the table, Goldie’s marker still uncapped, a pretzel perched in Tully’s finger.
And then the silence cracked open. Goldie made a choking sound that didn’t sound like her. Noah swore, shaking his head as if refusing to let the words in. Dylan’s bravado collapsed; he folded in on himself. Tully’s face went blank, but his hands clenched into fists so tight they went white.
And Camden?—
I’d never seen him look small before. Not at seven, not at seventeen, or twenty-one riding in to save the day. But now he looked like a little boy. Gutted, like the ground had given way beneath him and there was nothing to grab onto.
I wanted to reach for him, to say something, anything—but the words stuck in my throat. All I could do was stand there with my own heart breaking, watching the Whitmans’ world, and ours too, tilt on its axis in a way none of us could ever fix.
My mom walked in from the kitchen. “What’s going on?” she asked, her face draining with color like she already felt the worst. She moved to me, and I whispered what had happened. Her face broke, and I held her up as she wept.
I didn’t leave that night. None of us did. There was no way I could have walked out, not when Goldie’s whole body shook against me as she sobbed into my shoulder. I held her like I’d never let go, whispering useless words that did nothing but fill the space between her gasps for air. And then just being quiet to listen.
By morning, Erin was there too. She’d driven in from Windy Harbor as soon as she heard. She looked exhausted, her hair in a messy knot, so unlike her normally perfect pinup-with-an-edge look. Her arms wrapped around both Goldie and me the second she walked through the door.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner,” she said, her voice thick.
The three of us stuck close, moving together through the house as casseroles and condolences started pouring in. We tried to do small things—refilling coffee cups, finding tissues, keeping track of who had eaten. But mostly, we just sat with Goldie, letting her cry, letting her talk, letting her be silent.
The Whitman house didn’t sound the same anymore. I’d never heard it so quiet. The laughter was gone, swallowed by the heavy silence of grief. Every sibling wore it differently, and Camden disappeared. Not physically—he was there, always in the room, always within sight—but it was like he’d built walls overnight. He didn’t sit with us, didn’t let anyone touch him. When I tried—once, softly—just a hand on his arm, he jumped like I’d burned him.
Later, in the kitchen, I found him gripping the counter so hard his knuckles were white. And then he got something out of the freezer, and I heard him talking about a recipe under his breath. “I think it’ll be enough for everyone,” he said.
“Camden,” I whispered, not even sure what I could say.
“Goldie needs you,” he said, his voice raw, his eyes blazing.
I froze.
He turned away, but I saw that the tears had finally broken through.
“I can make food for everyone, if you’re hungry. I’m here for you too, you know, if you need me,” I whispered.
“I don’t,” he said.
It hit like a slap. But I didn’t hold it against him.
I went back to Goldie. Back to the one thing I could do: be the friend she needed. Erin squeezed my hand tight, grounding me, as Goldie leaned against us, her sobs quieting into hiccups.
What I didn’t realize that night was that whatever closeness I’d felt with Camden was gone. And it would be a long time before he’d let anyone get close again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
FIFTY SHADES OF BROWN
CAMDEN
