Page 163 of Pull Me Under

‘I don’t know how to look at him,’ I say. ‘Every time he opens his eyes, I think about what he said. What he did. And I can’t⁠—’

‘I know.’ Kit’s hand lands on my shoulder. ‘Believe me, I know. He did damage. Real damage. And you’re allowed to be furious about that.’

‘I don’t feel furious.’ I stare at my hands. ‘I don’t feel anything. Just … empty.’

‘That’s probably the exhaustion talking. Go home. Get some sleep. Figure out the rest when you can actually think straight.’

Home.

The word sounds wrong in my head. Dad’s cottage isn’t home – it’s a museum of resentment and silence, every room haunted by the ghost of a mother I wasn’t allowed to miss.

But there’s another place.

A cottage with a patched roof and windows that don’t close properly. A cottage that smells like sawdust and varnish and something floral underneath.

Brynn.

The name hits like a fist to the solar plexus.

‘Go,’ Kit says. ‘I’ll stay with him. Call if anything changes.’

I take my jacket. My hands are shaking and they continue to shake the entire drive home. First place I go is the boat shed. But it’s padlocked. No lights. No sign that she was ever there, that she ever came back.

‘Fuck.’ I jump back in my truck, and wish I could say that I’m feeling confident, calm, that I can fix this. But I don’t feel any of these things. What I feel is sick, to my stomach, like something bad is twisting there.

The cottage is dark.

No lights. No smoke from the chimney. No music drifting through the cracked windows.

I park in the lane. Sit there for a long moment, engine idling, staring at the building where I spent three nights learning what it felt like to be happy.

I get out. Walk up the path. Knock on the door.

Nothing.

‘Brynn?’ My voice sounds strange in the silence. ‘Brynn, it’s me. I know I – I just want to talk. Please.’

Nothing.

I try the handle. Locked.

Around the back.

I peer through the window. Everything in the kitchen looks exactly like we left it days ago. My stomach twists.

Her car has gone. I didn’t notice before – too focused on the cottage, on the dark windows – but the space where she parks is empty.

I check the front door again. No note. No sign of when she left or where she went.

She’s gone.

I stand in the overgrown garden, the last of the daylight fading, and feel the weight of it settle into my bones.

She’s actually gone.

I don’t know how long I stand there. Long enough for the light to bleed out of the sky. Long enough for the cold to seep through my jacket.

Eventually I walk back to the truck. Sit behind the wheel. Don’t start the engine.