“I have to.” His voice is rough, eyes shining. “For you. Because I care too much to let you stay.”
He turns, walks down the steps, and doesn’t look back.
I watch him go, his broad shoulders disappearing into the trees, boots crunching gravel until the sound fades.
The cottage is silent.
I close the door. Lock it. Lean against it and slide to the floor. Tears come then—hot, silent, endless. Travis is gone, but Ronan is gone too.
The hope I woke up with this morning feels like something that happened to someone else.
I sit there a long time, knees drawn to my chest, listening to the drip from the eaves, the distant crash of waves.
Eventually, I stand.
I pack a small bag, clothes, a toothbrush, Declan’s photo, and the shoebox of postcards. I leave the key under the mat.
I walk out the door, lock it behind me, and drive away from the cottage, from the bluff, from the lighthouse that still sweeps its beam across the water as if nothing has changed.
I don’t know where I’m going yet. I just know I can’t stay here and watch Ronan punish himself for surviving. Not when I’ve finally learned how to live.
Chapter twelve
Ronan
The cabin feels too big and too quiet after Isla leaves. I stand on the porch for a long time, hands shoved deep in my pockets, the wind tugging at my jacket like it wants me to follow her. I don’t. I told her to go. I told her I’m broken. And she listened, because she’s stronger than I ever gave her credit for.
Inside, the air still holds the faint trace of her, vanilla from her shampoo, the warmth of her skin against mine this morning. The bed is rumpled on her side, the pillow dented where her head rested. I don’t touch it. I can’t. Instead, I move through the motions of putting things right: straightening the quilt, folding the blanket we kicked to the foot of the bed, washing the two coffee mugs that sat on the nightstand like evidence of something I’m trying to erase.
None of it helps.
Guilt crashes over me in waves, old guilt layered with new. Declan’s face flickers behind my eyes every time I blink: the way he grinned before missions, the way his voice stayed calm evenwhen the helo was spinning toward the ground. I left him there. I walked away breathing when he couldn’t. And now I’ve done the same to his sister—pushed her out the door because the thought of letting her stay terrifies me more than losing her.
I pace the small living room until the walls feel like they’re closing in. Late afternoon light slants through the windows, turning everything gold and soft, but there’s no warmth in it. My chest is tight, breaths coming shallow. Fear for her safety mixes with everything else—sharp, metallic, like blood on my tongue. Travis is in custody, but men like him don’t stay caged forever. Restraining orders are paper. Sheriffs can’t watch every road. What if he makes bail? What if he finds her again? What if she’s driving right now with no one to stand between her and the next threat?
The thought makes my hands shake.
I grab my keys, my jacket, and head for the truck before I can talk myself out of it. The engine turns over with a low growl. I drive without thinking—past the harbor, past the diner where the neon sign is just flickering on, past the turnoff to the bluff where her cottage sits empty now. The road climbs, narrows, and turns to gravel as it hugs the cliffs. I know exactly where I’m going.
The memorial spot is nothing official, just a flat outcrop of rock above the water where Declan and I used to sit when he would visit on leave. We’d drink warm beer from a cooler, watch the sun sink into the Pacific, and talk about nothing and everything. After he died, I started coming alone. Never told anyone. Just parked the truck, walked the narrow path through the pines, and sat until the cold drove me back.
Dusk is settling when I arrive, sky bruised purple and rose, the horizon bleeding gold. The wind is sharper up here, carrying salt and pine and the low roar of waves far below. I cut the engine, step out, and walk the familiar trail. My boots crunch onfallen needles. The outcrop waits ahead, flat stone worn smooth by weather and time, a single weathered bench someone placed here years ago for no reason anyone remembers.
I sit heavily, elbows on my knees, hands clasped so tight my knuckles ache.
The ocean stretches endlessly below me, dark and restless. Gulls wheel low, crying sharp against the wind. I stare at the water until my eyes burn.
Declan’s voice is the first thing that comes, clear as if he’s sitting beside me. “You’re still punishing yourself, man.”
I laugh once, short and bitter. “Yeah. Habit.”
“You think that’s what I wanted? You sitting on this rock every year, beating yourself up because I didn’t make it?”
I swallow hard. “I should’ve pulled you out.”
“You tried. You got burned for it. You lived. That’s the job sometimes. One lives. One doesn’t. Doesn’t make the one who lives wrong.”
I rub my palms over my face. “I left you.”
