BELLAMY
Five setsof eyes swing my way.
My fork hovers over my plate as I try to think of what to say. I should’ve practiced my response. “We moved around a little bit over the last few years, but we’re back in Hollow Beach.”
Across from me, Gage’s gaze sharpens. Like he’s trying to see all the things I’m not saying. “For good?”
I meet his eyes and hold them, praying he doesn’t see the residual fear floating behind my eyes. “For now.”
Something tightens in his jaw. Something in my chest answers it, low and unwelcome.
“That’s real good, honey,” Coco says, cutting neatly across whatever that moment might have become. She reaches for her wineglass, giving me a soft smile over the rim. “It’s always good to come back home.”
The wordhomelands heavier than I expect. Dense and weighted, like something dropped in deep water.
Coco sets her glass down, eyes still on me. “And did you end up going to school for… what was it you wanted back then?”
I blink. For half a second, I’m sixteen again at her kitchen table—Lola pressed into the chair beside me, a stack of collegebrochures fanned out like a promise, my mother passed out on our couch back home. The air smells like burnt coffee and hope I don’t know what to do with yet.
I swallow. “Design.”
Coco tilts her wineglass toward me. “That’s right.Design.” She nods. “Did you end up at college for design, honey?”
Regret coils around my throat so fast it’s almost funny. Tight and efficient, like it’s been waiting for its cue.
I want to laugh. Or maybe just scream.
Instead, I clear my throat. “Life had other plans.”
Coco’s smile softens at the corners, like she can see the rest of the story. Maybe she does. Maybe she remembers the night I showed up here—hands shaking, pounding on the gate, begging Gage to help me. Begging her to help me get my brother and sister back.
I don’t let myself sit with it. I never do.
Coco’s hand finds my forearm, warm and steady. “Life often does, honey. You did what you had to do. That’s what matters.”
Her gaze lingers, gentle and assessing all at once. It fucking grates on me.
I clamp my teeth together, swallowing whatever sharp reply flickers at the back of my tongue. I force a brittle smile and take a sip of water, grateful for the excuse to look down.
“Anyway, I do freelance stuff,” I say. “Interior staging. Graphic design. That kind of thing.”
The words taste strange. Like I’m borrowing someone else’s life for a second.
Coco beams, eyes crinkling. “I think that’s wonderful. You always did have a good eye. I remember you drawing little floor plans on napkins at my kitchen table.”
Gage snorts softly. “And telling us our garage was structurally unsound.”
“It was,” I shoot back. “You had that weird attic crawl space with the loose?—”
“Bells,” Cruz cuts in, smirking. “You told me the garage was haunted.”
“Itwas,” I say again, heat creeping into my cheeks.
For a split second, I’m cold nylon and tangled sleeping bags. A scrape in the dark. My heart punching hard enough to wake me fully.
A ghost, I’d thought.
Rafe raises his brows. “Great. I’m sleeping in there next week.”
