My fingers are steady as I pull out my phone and dial the number Silvia gave me. A calm voice answers.
“Doctor Davis, this is Della Toma,” I say, looking at the horizon. “I’d like to schedule an online session.”
A fragile sense of hope settles in my chest as I end the call. The world feels a little clearer, the path forward less shrouded in fog. Clutching the phone like a promise, I turn and start walking back up the beach, the sand cool and grainy under my soles.
For the first time in days, I feel grounded.
In a second, the peace shatters.
Footsteps pound on the wet sand behind me—heavy, urgent, closing the distance with terrifying speed.
A jolt of pure adrenaline shoots through me.
I turn my head to glance back, but it's already too late.
Chapter 22
CHASING BUTTERFLIES
There is running from the past… and racing to save the future
Della
I hit the sand, and for a terrifying second a wall of solid muscle looms over me.
Strong hands grab my arms to steady me—but the grip is too tight, too much like the past.
My heart is pounding. My vision tunnels. The ocean, the sky, everything is a blur.
Andy…
Everything goes dark. The sharp tang of fear floods my system and my chest caves with the memory, a scream clawing at my throat.
“I’m so sorry—shit, are you okay?”
The man’s voice is startled, not cruel as he quickly stands. I shake my head. A hand appears in my line of sight, steady, open and I blink, forcing my breath to slow, to separate now from then.
He’s just a jogger. Dressed in dark running gear, phone in hand, earbuds dangling loose. His expression is worried, not menacing. His eyes—hazel, almost kind—search my face.
“I’m sorry! I wasn’t looking—I was checking my phone—are you alright?”
I nod. “I’m fine,” I manage, my voice a raw whisper.
I push myself up, ignoring his offered hand, and brush the sand from my dress. My pulse is still a wild animal against my ribs.
He hesitates, then backs up, apologizing once more before jogging away, already swallowed by distance.
The moment should end there. Just a simple accident. But it doesn’t. The echo of it remains, curling in my gut, a warning I can’t quite name.
I press a hand against my chest and force myself toward Silvia’s porch. My bare feet leave damp prints across the sand, the wind catching in my hair like ghost fingers.
I tell myself to shake it off, but my body is still braced for danger.
One step forward, even if my legs are still shaking.
By the time I sink onto the porch steps, I take a deep breath, scroll to Greg’s number and press call. He answers on the second ring, his voice brisk, professional.
“Della, good to hear from you. Is everything ok?”
