LOWEST POINT. HIGHEST STAKES
Morning came whether Cassie wanted it to or not.
She was still sitting on Liam’s empty bed when the first gray light crept through the windows, still holding the two letters—Elspeth’s and his—like talismans against the hollow ache in her chest. She hadn’t moved. Hadn’t slept. Had just sat there, cycling through the same thoughts over and over like a broken record of self-recrimination.
He left. The binding broke and he left.
But he didn’t leave town. He’s at the motel. He’s waiting.
He shouldn’t have to wait. He shouldn’t have to do anything. You pushed him away so many times he finally listened.
The house was different this morning. Quieter in a way that had nothing to do with sound. The wallshad settled into a muted dove gray—not the anxious, cycling grays of before, but something flatter. Sadder. Like the house itself had given up.
She finally forced herself to stand, joints aching from hours of stillness, and walked to the kitchen on autopilot. Coffee. She needed coffee. She needed something to do with her hands that wasn’t clutching letters and crying.
The truck was gone from the driveway.
She’d known it would be—Margaret had loaned him an old pickup almost a week ago so he could get supplies for all the repairs he’d been doing, repairs she’d never asked for, repairs he’d done because he was that kind of person, the kind who fixed things without being asked—but seeing the empty space where it used to be parked made her chest seize.
He was really gone.
Not gone-gone, she reminded herself. At the motel. Twenty minutes away. Waiting for her to decide what she wanted.
But the binding was broken now. Whatever magic had connected them, whatever invisible thread had given her an excuse to believe this wasn’t real—it was gone. Dissolved. Severed by her own desperate midnight spell.
And he’d felt it happen. He’d felt it snap and he’d packed his bags and he’d left a note that was generous and patient and far kinder than she deserved.
If you want to find me, you know where I’ll be.
She poured coffee with shaking hands.
“Bonjour, madame.” Jacques’s voice was subdued, none of his usual crisp French flair. “Un café pour le cœur brisé?”
“I don’t have a broken heart.”
“Pardonnez-moi. Un café pour la femme stupide qui a brisé son propre cœur?”
“Your bedside manner needs work.”
“Je suis un grille-pain. Je n’ai pas de lit.”
Luna padded into the kitchen, hopped onto the counter, and fixed Cassie with a look of profound disappointment.
“You’re an idiot,” the cat said.
“I know.”
“He was good.”
“I know.”
“He was choosing you, every day, and you couldn’t see it because you’d already decided it was impossible.”
“Iknow, Luna.”
“Good. As long as we’re clear.” Luna sat back on her haunches. “So what are you going to do about it?”
Before Cassie could answer—and she didn’t have an answer, not really, just a fog of grief and regret and bone-deep exhaustion—the front door burst open.
