“So, we taking bets on how long it is before Jace surfaces again?”
Sawyer let out a low whistle. “Oh, I’ll take that action.”
I pointed at him. “Of course you will. You live for chaos.”
“I live for entertainment,” Sawyer corrected. “Chaos is just a bonus.”
Ford grinned.
And just like that, the conversation devolved into banter—ridiculous, familiar, easy—and it reminded me that no matter how ugly things got, no matter how hard the island tried to freeze people into the worst moments of their lives, I still had this.
These were my brothers.
And in a world that kept handing me reasons to feel alone, I was so fucking grateful for that.
Twenty-Four
MADDEN
I had three tabs open for missing persons databases, two more for regional boards where people posted everything from “lost dog” to “my neighbor’s cousin saw a UFO,” and one spreadsheet that was rapidly becoming the only thing in my life that seemed like it obeyed any form of logic.
The spreadsheet was winning.
I copied the wording from my last post, tweaked two lines to fit the rules of this forum—no last names unless public record, no personal contact info, no “call me,” only “message me here”—and hit submit.
The page refreshed. My post dropped into the thread like a stone into a lake. No splash. Just a quiet, stubborn presence.
I stared at it for a second longer than necessary, waiting for that tiny dopamine ping my brain insisted should come with doing the right thing. It didn’t. It hadn’t in days. It was like my system had burned through whatever “reward” chemical it used to keep me functioning and decided we were on our own.
My stomach reminded me it existed with a hollow, reproachful twist.
Right. Food. Humans required food. Ideally, before they turned into brittle, irritable monsters.
I dragged myself up from the little table in the cabin and stepped into the narrow galley. The boat shifted under me with that subtle rock that was just enough movement to remind me I wasn’t on land. I opened the small fridge, stared at the contents, and made a decision that was both deeply practical and, if my father had his way, a prosecutable offense.
Bread. Cheese. Butter.
Grilled cheese.
I pulled out what I needed, set a pan on the stove, and turned the knob. The click-click-click of ignition sounded too loud in the quiet cabin. The pan warmed. The butter hissed. I laid the sandwich down and watched it sizzle, the scent of browning fat and bread doing more for my mood than it had any business doing.
While it cooked, I reached into the cabinet above the sink and pulled out the box of MoonPies I’d bought at the island market earlier that week. Chocolate. Because if I was going to do this, I was going to commit.
I set it on the counter like a bribe to my future self.
The grilled cheese browned on one side. I flipped it and watched the edge of cheese start to melt into a glossy line when my phone lit up on the counter beside me.
Dad.
For a second I stared at the screen. There were a lot of ways to interpret a call from him. None of them were “checking in because he missed me.”
I turned the stove down out of reflex, wiped my fingers on a dish towel, and picked up the phone.
“Hello?” Because that was what you said, even when you knew who was on the other end.
“Madden.” My name, as always from him, sounded like a title. As if he were addressing someone he expected to perform.
I braced without moving. “Hi, Dad.”
