Chapter one
Isla
The fog rolls in thick off the Pacific as I ease my new car around the final curve into Haven's Cove. It's like the ocean itself is wrapping the little town in soft gray arms that muffle every sound except the steady crash of waves against the cliffs below. My hands tighten on the wheel, knuckles pale against the leather.
I've been driving for days, stopping only when exhaustion forced me to pull over at some roadside motel with flickering neon signs. Each mile feels like peeling away another layer of the life I am leaving behind, shedding the weight of fear that has clung to me for too long.
Travis's voice still echoes in my head sometimes, low and smooth until it isn't. "You think you can just walk away, Isla? You're mine. You'll come crawling back." The last time he said it, his fingers had dug into my upper arm hard enough to leave bruises shaped like his grip. I'd waited until he passed out drunk on the couch, packed one bag, and slipped out the back door likea thief in my own life. No note. No goodbye. Just the quiet click of the latch and the roar of my heart in my ears. That was three days ago, but it feels like a lifetime and a heartbeat all at once.
I remember the moment I decided to run. It was a Tuesday night, rain pounding the roof of our apartment like it wanted in. Travis had come home late, reeking of whiskey and anger from whatever fight he'd picked at the bar. I'd made dinner—pasta with the sauce he liked, hoping it would calm him down. But he took one look at it and shoved the plate off the table, shards scattering across the linoleum like broken promises. "What the hell is this slop?" he'd snarled, his face twisting in that way that always made my stomach drop. I apologized, even though I hadn't done anything wrong. That's how it went with him—apologies became my currency, buying a few hours of peace before the next storm.
He grabbed my wrist that night, twisting just enough to make me gasp. "You don't get to mess up like this, Isla. Not with me." His eyes were dark, not with love but with possession, like I was a thing he owned rather than a person he cherished. I'd met him two years ago at a coffee shop in Seattle, back when his charm felt like sunshine after my brother Declan's death left me in shadows. He was all easy smiles and compliments then, drawing me in with stories of his travels and promises of a life full of adventure. But the adventures turned to isolation, his jealousy fencing me in until my world shrank to just him and the apartment walls.
Declan would have hated him. My brother was the overprotective type, always watching out for me, even while he was deployed across the world. "Trust your gut, sis," he'd say on those scratchy video calls, his uniform crisp against some desert backdrop. "If a guy makes you feel small, run the other way." I didn't listen soon enough. After Declan died, gone in a flash of bad luck and bravery, I was lost, grasping for anything thatfelt like stability. Travis seemed like that at first, but his form of stability turned to chains.
Getting away wasn't easy. I'd planned it in secret for weeks, stashing cash from my freelance graphic design gigs into a hidden envelope under the mattress. Travis controlled the bank accounts, constantly checking the statements with a suspicious eye. "Where'd this twenty go?" he'd demand, as if every penny was a betrayal.
I started taking on extra work, designing logos and flyers for small businesses online, anything to build an escape fund without him noticing. Nights when he was out, I'd lie awake mapping routes on my phone, then delete the history afterward.
Haven's Cove popped up in my mind during one of those sleepless hours. Declan had mentioned it offhand in an email once: "Found this gem on the Oregon coast during leave. Safe spot, remote, like the world's edge. You'd love the views." I don't know why he said it, or why it stuck with me. But it did. No connections. No paper trail. Perfect.
The night I left, I waited until Travis’s snores filled the living room. My heart hammered so loud I was sure it'd wake him. I tiptoed to the bedroom, grabbed the bag I'd packed with essentials—clothes, toiletries, Declan's old photo, a burner phone I'd bought in cash at a sketchy convenience store. The envelope of money went into my coat pocket, crisp bills feeling like freedom. I glanced back once at the couch where he sprawled, mouth open, one arm dangling. Part of me pitied him, the broken boy under the bully, but pity had kept me there too long already. I slipped out the back, down the fire escape stairs, and into the alley where I'd parked my car two blocks away the day before, just in case.
Driving out of the city felt like breaking through the water's surface after holding my breath too long. I took back roads, avoiding highways where cameras might catch my plates.Stopped at a gas station outside Portland to dye my hair a darker brown in the grimy bathroom, chopping it shorter with scissors from my bag. It wasn't a perfect disguise, but it made me feel different, less like the girl Travis knew. I ditched my old phone in a dumpster, switched to the burner. No social media. No calls to old friends who'd ask questions. Just me and the open road, heading to this forgotten corner of Oregon.
Now, as I pull into a gravel lot beside the community center, I kill the engine and sit for a moment, listening to the tick of cooling metal. My reflection stares back from the rearview mirror. There are dark circles under my eyes, the new hair frames my face in unfamiliar waves, and my lips are pressed thin. I look tired. I feel tired.
I grab my purse and the folder with my new-hire paperwork, step out into the damp chill, and pull my coat tighter. The air smells of seaweed and pine and something faintly sweet, like rain-soaked earth waking up. A few locals glance my way as I walk up the steps. They look curious, but not unfriendly. Small towns notice newcomers. I force a small smile and push through the glass doors.
Inside, it's warmer, smelling of coffee and old books. The receptionist, a woman with silver-streaked hair and kind eyes, looks up from her desk. "You must be Isla Hart. Right on time. I'm Marjorie."
We shake hands, and she leads me through a short hallway lined with bulletin boards covered in flyers for book clubs, yoga classes, and a lost-cat poster that's starting to curl at the edges. "We're thrilled to have you," she says, her voice warm like fresh-baked bread. "The last coordinator left for the city lights, but we need someone with your youth to keep things lively."
I nod, murmuring thanks. The job came through an online posting. It’s event planning and community outreach, flexible hours, and no experience required beyond "enthusiasm andorganization." I applied under my real name, figuring Travis wouldn't think to search job boards in tiny coastal towns, plus I don’t want to really be someone completely different.
Marjorie chatters on about the town's history as we walk. Haven’s Cove was founded by loggers in the 1800s and is now a haven for artists and retirees, with the state's best crab festival. It's comforting, this normalcy, like slipping into a warm bath after a cold day.
My office, if you can call it that, is a converted storage room with one window overlooking the harbor. A desk, a chair, a filing cabinet, and a wilting plant someone left behind. It's small, but it's mine.
Marjorie shows me the ropes quickly: event calendar on the shared drive, supply closet down the hall, and how to unlock the back door for the evening tai chi group. "You'll settle in fine," she says, patting my arm. "We don't bite. Much."
I laugh softly, the sound surprising me. It's been a while since anything felt light enough to laugh at. "Thanks, Marjorie. I appreciate the welcome."
She waves it off. "Oh, and if you need anything fixed around your place, ask for Ronan Black. He's our local handyman, ex-military, quiet type, but golden with tools." I file this away.
After she leaves, I spend the next hour unpacking the few personal items I brought. A framed photo of Declan in his uniform, smiling that crooked grin of his. A notebook for ideas and a small succulent, I hope I won't kill. The photo makes my throat tighten. Declan was my anchor growing up, the big brother who taught me to ride a bike and stand up to bullies. Losing him shattered something in me.
I set the photo on the desk and boot up the ancient computer. Emails to sort, a spring fair to plan. It's mundane work, but it grounds me. No drama. No accusations.
By late morning, the fog has burned off enough to let pale sunlight slant across the harbor. I step outside for air, leaning against the railing of the wooden walkway that runs along the water. Fishing boats bob gently, their hulls streaked with barnacles and paint. Gulls wheel overhead, crying sharp and hungry. The salt air stings my cheeks, invigorating, like a promise of new beginnings.
And then I see him.
He's working on one of the docks farther down, broad shoulders straining the faded black T-shirt as he hauls a coil of rope. Dark hair, a little too long, falls across his forehead. Even from here, I can make out the line of a scar along his jaw, silver against tanned skin. He moves with the kind of deliberate strength that comes from years of discipline—controlled, economical, no wasted motion. Military, maybe? Marjorie's words echo about the town's handyman.
When he straightens and wipes sweat from his brow, his gaze sweeps the walkway and lands on me. For a second, the world narrows to just that look. Intense. Unreadable. Something flickers in his eyes before his expression shutters. He turns away and goes back to his work.
My pulse stutters. I know that kind of shutdown. Travis had it too, the way he'd close off when I asked too many questions about his nights out or his temper. But this man feels different—distant, not dangerous. Still, weariness settles over me like the fog. I've had enough of men who hide behind walls. Curiosity is a trap. It pulls you in, makes you ignore the red flags until they're waving in your face.
