It feels like every decision we make has to be filtered through what other people think is right.
“Having your baby would make me so happy.”
“Charlotte—”
I turn my head and look at him in the dim light. “I know it’s not rational. I know we can’t. I know what it would cost us. But you wanted honesty, and that’s the truth.”
“Come here,” he says, pulling me against him.
We lie there, the boat rocking gently beneath us, stars drifting past the porthole. His heartbeat is steady under my ear, lulling me toward sleep.
Chapter 32
Dane Gallagher
We plannedfor three days on the yacht and stayed five. Running low on supplies is what finally pushed us back to Brisbane.
Five days wasn’t enough. Not even close.
Out there, something shifted. Not in my head—in my body. It stands down. There’s no fence line to watch. No drones. Just open water, horizon in every direction, and the work of keeping us moving. Peace—the kind you can only find when no one can reach you.
The nights on the yacht gave me the best sleep I’ve had since we left the island. Charlotte got some too—I can tell by the way she breathes when she’s truly asleep, not half-alert, not waiting for something to go wrong.
But here at the house, that’s gone.
We’re staying in Brisbane a few days for one reason and one reason alone.
Charlotte booked an appointment with a gynecologist and informed me she was going alone. If we were recognized, having me there would only draw more attention.
I don’t like it, but she’s right. So I don’t argue. I hand her cab money and watch her go.
I head to the marina. When thinking stops being useful, I work. It’s where I go by default.
At the yacht, I move through everything—bilge, engine, fuel lines, rigging. Not just checking it. Learning it. Getting a feel for it. Hands on all of it.
I’m eager to get back out there. Simple as that. Whatever comes next for us involves that boat.
When Charlotte’s cab pulls up at the marina, I feel it straight away—something in me easing the second I see her.
She steps aboard with her hands in her jacket pockets, cap still pulled low.
“Hey, babe. How’d it go?”
“Exactly how you’d expect. A lot of questions. A lot of lying.”
She takes off her cap and shakes out her hair. “I told them I was assaulted by the men who killed our parents and that’s how I fell pregnant.”
The story is plausible, and there’s no way to verify it.
“Did she believe you?”
“I guess. She asked if I wanted to report it. I said there was no point because it was so long ago and I didn’t know who they were.” A pause. “She recommended I see a therapist.”
After everything we’ve been through, both of us could probably benefit from therapy.
“Do you want to see one?”
“No point. I couldn’t be honest about anything.”
