“We’re ...working on that,” he says.
“How?”I press.
Eddie’s face changes—the set of his mouth narrows, his fingers curl around the kettle handle like it’s the only thing tethering him to the moment.He looks at me and then at Barret, and something like an apology passes him before he speaks.His throat moves once, twice, and when the words come, they are thin and terrible.
Barret reaches for my hand before I can pull away, his fingers warm and solid.The kettle hisses on the stove like an accusation.I blink, the sentence still settling inside my bones, and for a second my brain goes moon-sick—trying to map the logic of it into something resembling safety.
“What do you mean I have to die?”I ask, the words sounding ridiculous in my mouth, because they sound like something from a bad film script and not the kitchen where our lives are supposed to be safe.
Eddie exhales, a long, tired sound.He sets the kettle down gently, then turns to face me, eyes raw and honest.
“Not literal,” he says quickly, as if the idea needs a disclaimer.“We staged your disappearance when we rescued you.We just filed a missing person report under Dorian’s name, which makes him look guilty.The Bradleys and I are working the rest.”He grins, weirdly proud of the mess of cleverness and risk he’s cobbled together.“It forces scrutiny—draws attention to his business, his connections.Gives the police something real to chase while we keep you somewhere safe.”
Barret squeezes my hand, voice soft as thread.“Sounds scary,” he admits.“But it’s the only way to get him to the surface.To make his life messy enough that he can’t hide.”
“Killing me off doesn’t sound great,” I try to joke, and it comes out brittle, a cracked thing I immediately regret.There’s the taste of fear on my tongue, metallic and small.
“Cleo, baby.You don’t die,” Eddie says, his smile a taut thing that doesn’t touch his eyes.He runs a hand through his hair, fingers raking like he’s trying to push the problem back into neatness.“We set everything up.The Bradleys are building a trail.We make them follow him while you stay put.”His hands find my shoulders.“We’ll keep you close.We’ll keep you invisible to him until it’s safe to return.”
“But you might come back under a different name,” Barret adds, almost casually, like an afterthought to a plan that already feels stitched together with fire and risk.
“Okay,” I say finally, because sometimes the only honest answer is the smallest one that keeps us moving.My throat is raw and my hands are shaking, but I let them guide me into this because if I don’t trust them, I might not come out of this alive.
The kettle whistles, breaking the moment.Eddie turns off the burner, pours water over tea leaves, and the scent of chamomile curls into the air.Barret pulls plates from the cupboard, sets them down with quiet precision.They’ve been babying me since the first day I arrived—fussing, anticipating, stepping in before I even think to ask.And I push back for the first time since I’ve been here.
“I’ll do it,” I say, brushing past Eddie to grab the bread.I drop two slices in the toaster, butter in one hand, jam in the other.
They both watch me, like I’ve just announced I’m leaving the island.
“What?”I shrug, smearing the knife over the golden bread once it pops.“I can make my own breakfast.I don’t need every bite delivered.”
Barret’s grin flashes, wicked and warm.“Look at you, princess, reclaiming the kingdom.”
Eddie leans on the counter, mug in hand, gaze fixed on me.His smile is softer, threaded with something protective he doesn’t bother hiding.“Noted.”
I sit at the island, cross my legs, and eat my toast in slow bites.I pour tea, spoon in sugar, and stir until it tastes exactly how I want.Then I slice an apple from the bowl, knife held firm in my hand, the blade clicking against the cutting board.Barret doesn’t move to take it from me like he usually did even before I disappeared on them.Eddie doesn’t reach out to help.They just watch and wait.
I stack my plate in the sink and wipe the counter when I finish.“So ...where’s this pool you were talking about?”
“Down the hall,” Barret responds.“It’s first set of glass doors.It’s saltwater and heated.You can swim year-round.The ceiling even opens when the weather’s good.”
Eddie pushes his chair back, rising.“We’ll go with you.”
Going with me sounds like a normal thing they would do.They wouldn’t want to miss the show, me wet.I don’t know how to feel about it, though some days I feel like a different person with a borrowed body.I don’t know who Cleo is ...whatever my last name is.
Barret threads his fingers through mine as he stands and pulls me to him.We fall into step together.His stride is longer, but he adjusts, slowing just enough so I don’t have to rush to keep up.The soft thump of our bare feet on the floorboards sounds like a rhythm only we know.
Eddie falls in on my other side, close enough that I can feel the heat from his skin, careful enough not to crowd me.
The corridor shifts around us, cooler air giving way to warmth.It smells faintly of heated tiles and citrus, threaded through with the tang of salt.The lights are low, dimmed to an intensity that makes the whole house feel hushed, like it’s keeping our movements to itself.
Barret adjusts his grip on my hand before leaning his shoulder into the wide glass door.It gives with a sigh, sliding open on its track.Warmth spills out, humid enough to soften the air against my skin, seeping through the knit of my sweater and clinging faintly to my hair.
Inside, the pool glows from below, illuminated in shades of blue and silver that ripple against the tiled walls.The water remains still, shining like glass until the underlights fracture it into movement.Chlorine lingers beneath a faint thread of citrus, and the warm air softens the edges of my sweater, clinging lightly to my skin.It doesn’t feel like a room so much as a secret tucked beneath the house—private, only for the three of us.
It’s not a reveal so much as an unbuttoning.I watch how the underlights turn the water into a blue-green flame, casting its shimmer onto the high ceiling.The rest is quiet design—arched beams, pale stone tiles that hold a trace of heat, wide windows fogged faintly where the warm air meets the Washington chill.My toes curl against the floor, warmed through my flats, and for a moment, I imagine what it will feel like barefoot, slipping into that glow.
“I love it,” I say before I can think better of it.The words fall out raw and honest.For once, I don’t chase them back into silence.
