It should have felt triumphant. Redemptive.
Instead, it just felt strange.
Because Dad wasn't larger than life anymore.
He was just a man. Still handsome, still charismatic in the way that made people listen when he spoke. But for me, there was something broken in him that no amount of time or explanation could fix.
He'd left us.
He'd had his reasons—good ones, maybe—but he'd still left.
And I wasn't sure I'd ever forgive him for that.
"Micah."
Joy's voice pulled me back. I looked at her, and she squeezed my hand.
"We're going to be okay," she said softly.
I wanted to believe her.
Instead, I just nodded and held on tighter.
The pilot was good.
He brought us in low and fast, the helicopter's skids kissing the very edge of Deveaux Bank with barely a jolt.
Water splashed up around us as we disembarked, boots sinking into wet sand, the rotor wash whipping our clothes and hair into chaos.
Ahead, maybe fifty yards up the sandbar, a single lantern glowed.
And beside it, a figure waited.
The helicopter lifted off immediately, the noise deafening, and then it was gone, leaving us alone in the dark with nothing but the sound of waves and wind.
We started walking.
Dad led. I followed, Joy between us.
The sand was soft, unstable, sucking at our boots with every step. The air smelled like salt and decay, the marsh breathing around us, alive and indifferent.
And then we were close enough to see her.
Victoria.
She stood beside the lantern like she'd been waiting for hours, perfectly composed, a slim cigarette held between two fingers. The light carved shadows across her face, turning her into something doll-like, porcelain and eerie.
She must have been beautiful once. Decades ago, when she and Dad had their fling, she would've been stunning.
Now, she just looked … constructed. Polished. Like she'd been assembled rather than born.
Her eyes found us as we approached, and to my dismay, her gaze settled on Joy.
Not me. Not Dad.
Joy.
"Joy McKinley," Victoria said slowly, like she was tasting the words. "In the flesh, again."
