“Hi, this is Isla. Leave a message.”
I wait for the beep.
“Isla.” My voice comes out rougher than I mean it to. “It’s me. I’m at the cottage. You’re not here. I—” I swallow. “I was wrong. This morning. Last night. All of it. I’m not letting fear decide anymore. I’m not letting guilt decide. I want you. I want us. If you’re still in town… if you’re willing to hear me out… come back. Or tell me where you are. I’ll come to you. Just… don’t disappear. Please.”
I end the call. Stare at the dark screen.
The lighthouse beam sweeps past the window—slow, steady, still doing its job.
I sink onto the couch, elbows on my knees, head in my hands.
And I wait.
Because for the first time since Declan died, I’m not running from anything.
I’m running toward something.
And I’m not stopping until she knows it.
Chapter thirteen
Isla
The morning light is thin and cool when I wake, spilling across the guest bedroom floor in Marjorie’s home. I’ve barely slept, every distant rumble of a truck on the highway, sent my heart racing, convinced Travis had found a way out of custody and was coming back for me. The sheriff assured me he’s being held without bail, that the charges are solid, but fear doesn’t listen to reason. It sits in my chest like a stone, heavy and cold.
I force myself up, pull on yesterday’s sweater, and move through the quiet room like a ghost. My suitcase is opened, but mostly still packed. I tell myself I’m being practical. Haven’s Cove was supposed to be a fresh start, not a place where my past could walk up the porch steps and break down the door. Staying feels reckless. Leaving feels like surrender.
I hear three sharp knocks on Marjorie’s front door. It’s Ronan.
He’s standing on the porch in the same jacket he wore yesterday, hair wind-tousled, chest rising and falling like he ranthe whole way here. His eyes are fixed on the door—intense, almost desperate.
I make my way to the front door. Part of me wants to pretend I’m not here. Part of me wants to open the door and let whatever this is crash over me one more time.
I turn the lock. Pull the door open.
He steps forward the moment the gap is wide enough, breathless, voice rough. “Isla.”
I don’t move. “What are you doing here?”
“I called. Left a message.” He runs a hand through his hair. “You didn’t answer.”
“I turned my phone off.” I cross my arms over my chest. “I needed space.”
His gaze drops to the suitcase behind me, then back to my face. Something raw flickers in his eyes. “You’re leaving.”
“Yes.”
He exhales hard, like the word punched the air out of him. “Don’t.”
I laugh once, but it’s small and brittle. “You told me to go, Ronan. You said you’re broken. You said this ends now. I listened.”
“I was wrong.” The words come out low, urgent. “I was scared. Still am. But I’m done letting fear decide.”
I search his face. The lines around his eyes are deeper this morning, shadows under them dark enough to tell me he didn’t sleep either. “You can’t just show up and change your mind.”
“I’m not changing my mind. I’m finally admitting what I’ve known since the day you fell off that ladder and I caught you.” He takes another step closer, close enough that I can smell pine and salt on his jacket. “I want you, Isla. Not just for a night. Not just because we’re both hurting. I want to wake up next to you. I want to fix your roof when it leaks. I want to stand between you and anything that tries to hurt you.”
My throat tightens. “You said you couldn’t save me.”
