He writes that down at the same pace.
“You’ve never forced or pressured Charlotte into anything sexual?”
“No! She’s my sister.”
His eyes drop, and he keeps writing.
Then I hear her. Not the words at first, but the shift in her voice through the wall—higher, edged, and strained.
I keep my eyes on him and my breathing steady.
Then Charlotte’s voice carries into the sitting room.
“My brother did not rape me!”
Something tightens in my chest, not because of the words, but because she has to say them out loud while someone writes them down.
“He would never force me to do anything!”
Harris is watching me, but I don’t react.
“My brother has not brainwashed me!”A beat.“I’m done answering your questions! I want you to leave my house! Now!”
Silence. Then movement—chairs scraping back and footsteps crossing the floor.
Harris closes his notebook.
“We appreciate your cooperation,” he says, standing. “At this stage, there’s no evidence of a criminal offense. We just needed to conduct a welfare check on Ms. Gallagher.”
He heads for the door, then pauses. “We may be in touch again.”
They leave, and the house goes quiet. But it’s not the same quiet.
I stand there for a moment, stunned.
We may be in touch again.
What does that mean?
Grandad answerson the second ring.
He listens without interrupting. When I’m done, there’s a brief pause, and then he moves straight to solutions.
“You’ll need a lawyer. I have someone. I’ll make the call.”
Charlotte stands across the kitchen, watching me.
“Don’t speak to the police again without legal counsel present,” he continues. “And stay put. I’ll let you know what our next move is after I speak with my lawyer.”
The line goes dead.
Stay put.
I look at Charlotte. She looks back.
The yacht’s ready—stocked, fueled, and waiting—and staying put isn’t something either of us was counting on.
But we stay because we’ve been given no other choice.
