Ten o’clock. I haven’t slept that late since I was a teenager with a hangover.
“Your phone has been vibrating all morning,” Knox adds, pointing back toward the house. “It’s on the mantle. Rhett didn’t want to wake you up to answer it.”
My stomach drops. “My phone?”
“I figured it was important,” he says. “It didn’t stop buzzing for about an hour.”
I abandon the chickens and the conversation. I hurry back to the house, the damp quilt flapping behind me. I push through the front door and scan the room.
There it is, sitting on the stone mantle. My lifeline to the real world.
I grab it. The screen is cracked—I must have dropped it in the mud yesterday—but it lights up. Dozens of notifications.
I swipe the screen open.
Messages from Penelope.Are you okay?Please call me.I’m so sorry.
Messages from Richard.We need to talk.Don’t be childish.
I delete those.
Messages from the book club group chat.
Dot:Storm is coming in hard! Everyone safe?
Pearl: I have wine if anyone needs shelter.
Baby: Stay off the roads!
And then, one name stands out. One name that makes my breath catch in my throat.
Willa:Hey. I heard you were at the clinic yesterday. I’m sorry I missed you. I’m glad you’re okay. How are you holding up?
The time stamp is twenty minutes ago.
My hands shake. This is the first time she has reached out since the news broke. Since the world found out what Jack Dalton tried to do to her. If she’s texting me... if she’s reaching out...
I have to go see her. I have to know she’s really okay. Text isn’t enough.
I hit the call button. I press the phone to my ear, my heart pounding.
Riiing. Riiing.
“Come on, Willa,” I whisper.
“The person you are calling is unavailable. Please leave a message after the tone.”
I stare at the phone. “Shit.”
The signal is probably down. Or maybe she turned it off. Maybe she can’t deal with the noise of the world right now. But I can’t just sit here. I can’t just wait for the digital world to fix itself.
I need to go to her.
I turn around, intending to grab my coat and keys.
Rhett walks out of the kitchen, carrying two mugs. He’s wearing a sweater that looks soft enough to sleep in, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows.
“Coffee,” he says, holding one out to me.
