With each blink, the scene before me washed out and snapped back into focus. I was close—I could feel it in my bones, an inexplicable pull toward where she had to be.
"Olivia!" One last effort, one final push. And then, there it was—a fleeting shadow darting into the dense thicket.
"Got you," I whispered to no one, to the wind, to Olivia. With a renewed burst of energy, I plunged after the shadow.
Olivia's silhouette flickered through the palm trees like a ghost. She ran as if chased by the very storm that raged around her, anger and despair fueling each step.
"Olivia!" My voice was growing hoarse, shredded by the wind that whipped around me. Desperation lent volume to my call, cutting through the sound of the howling wind.
She didn't slow, didn't turn. Her secrets, the ones I was so close to unraveling, propelled her deeper into the maelstrom that swallowed the island.
"Stop!" I demanded of the gale, of her, of everything between us.
The ground slipped beneath me—slick, treacherous. I went down hard, a jolt of pain shooting through my palm as it slapped the wet earth—no time for pain. I scrambled up, adrenaline dulling the ache, my gaze locked on the blur of Olivia's retreating back.
"Olivia Thomas, halt!" The federal agent in me cut loose, authority unyielding. It was a demand, not a plea, and it echoed across the distance.
No reply but the mocking howl of the wind, the symphony of thunder and crashing waves.
"Damn it, Olivia, talk to me!"
Nothing.
I surged forward, feet finding purchase where none seemed to exist. The world was reduced to flashes of lightning, the drum of rain, and Olivia's fleeing form. My daughter was out there, alone, afraid, and burdened by truths too heavy for her young shoulders.
Chapter29
THEN:
Isla sat cross-legged on her bed, the soft hum of the ceiling fan mingling with the distant call of seagulls outside her window. Around her, half-unpacked suitcases lay open like clamshells, their contents a disheveled mix of summer clothes and uncertainty. Her fingers, bronzed from days spent under the coastal sun, moved absentmindedly over the smooth surface of a seashell. Its spirals felt cool against her skin.
This was always her favorite part of summer: when Aunt Beatrice arrived.
Aunt Beatrice had no children of her own and had always been there for Isla when she needed it. This summer, in particular, she needed her more than ever after all that was happening with her mother. No one knew how to handle Isla’s mother like Aunt Beatrice. As she helped her unpack, Isla already felt better. Aunt Beatrice’s presence immediately washed over her like a gentle wave.
Aunt Bea’s smile was a quiet harbor. It was soft, knowing—reaching her eyes that peered out from behind stylish glasses, lenses that seemed to magnify not just the words of a book but the unspoken language of the heart. Those eyes had seen Isla grow, had witnessed every high and low of her life, and now they rested upon her with an empathy that required no translation.
The faintest of lines around Bea's eyes deepened as her smile broadened, a silent testament to years of joy and sorrow shared within the fabric of their family. It was a look that spoke volumes, a wordless acknowledgment that said, "I see you, dear child, and all will be well." With Aunt Bea here, the weight of the unknown felt less daunting, the future less murky.
She was no longer alone.
Isla's gaze lifted from the delicate contours of the seashell to Aunt Bea's familiar face, a surge of gratitude washing over her.
"Aunt Bea," she breathed out, her voice carrying the weight of countless unspoken words. The shell was gently placed on the nightstand as Isla patted the space beside her on the bed, an invitation as much for the company as it was for solace.
"Come sit with me?" she asked, her plea soft yet underscored by a need for the comfort only Bea could provide.
Bea obliged, settling onto the edge of the mattress with a grace that made even this simple act seem like part of a greater dance of reassurance. Her presence was a balm to Isla's frayed nerves, and in the sanctuary of her room, they were just Isla and Bea—family, with no pretenses necessary.
"Can I tell you something?" Isla ventured, her eyes locking onto Bea's with an intensity borne of conflicting emotions.
"Of course, my sweet child," Bea encouraged, her hand finding Isla's, their fingers intertwining. “You can tell me anything. You know that.”
Isla took a deep breath, the salt-tinged air of her memories mingling with the faint scent of lavender that always clung to Bea.
"This summer, things have been very difficult," she confessed, her voice a tapestry of hope and fear. "With Mom—Victoria. We’ve been fighting a lot."
The words hung between them, fraught with the gravity of past grievances and the fragile tendrils of hope. Isla's yearning for reconciliation with her mother was palpable, yet so too was the apprehension that crept into the edges of her tone, painting her desire with shades of uncertainty.
