Page 60 of Pull Me Under

I escape upstairs to shower and change, standing under water hot enough to scald, trying to burn out the images that keep surfacing.

The sound she made when I told her about Dad. The way the anger cracked open and she kissed me like she was falling. Her voice: My grandad forgot things too. Small things first. Like she was handing me permission to be fucking scared.

And then the notebook. Her plans, her lists, the future I held in my hands before she threw me out.

I turn the water to cold and stand there until I’m shivering.

I should go for a surf. The swell would be clean this morning – glassy and cold. Exactly what I need. But there’s no time. There’s never time.

It doesn’t help.

The lifeboat station is quiet when I arrive at quarter to two. Cal’s already there, clipboard in hand, running through the assessment checklist with the methodical precision of a man who’s done this a hundred times.

‘Harding.’ He nods when he sees me. ‘You ready?’

‘Ready as I’ll ever be.’

He gives me a look that suggests he’s not entirely fooled by my casual tone, but doesn’t push. ‘Standard protocol. Knots, equipment, water recovery. I’ll observe the final drill.’

‘Right.’

‘And Jude?’ He waits until I meet his eyes. ‘Whatever history there is between your families, leave it at the door. I need an honest assessment.’

‘You’ll get one.’

Cal was always like this with Kit – direct, trusting, full of the quiet faith that comes from training someone yourself. I’m the understudy promoted to lead because the star is on holiday. Cal’s patient with me, but it’s not the same, and we both know it.

I spend the next ten minutes checking equipment I’ve already checked twice, arranging the rope for knot tests, making sure the rescue mannequin is properly weighted. Busy work. Anything to keep my hands occupied and my mind from wandering.

At two o’clock exactly, Brynn arrives at the sea pool the RNLI use for training.

She’s in practical gear – waterproof trousers, thermal layer, hair pulled back tight. She looks sharp. Ready.

‘Trelawney.’ I nod, aiming for professional detachment.

‘Harding,’ she replies, voice flat. But I catch the way her jaw tightens slightly when she sees me. The way her eyes flick over me once, quickly, before she looks away.

Good. So we’re both pretending.

‘Cal’s observing the final drill,’ I say, all business. ‘We’ll start with knots, move to equipment, finish with water recovery. Any questions?’

‘No.’

‘Right then.’ I gesture towards the rope shed that sits along the rough-hewn rock wall. ‘Show me a bowline.’

She doesn’t hesitate before striding over. Her hands move with automatic efficiency that speaks to years of practice – loop, pass through, around, back down. Done in under five seconds.

‘Figure eight on a bight.’

Same thing. Quick, clean, perfect.

‘Clove hitch.’

She raises an eyebrow, but does it anyway. Flawless.

‘Anchor bend. Round turn and two half hitches. Sheet bend.’ I’m throwing them faster now, trying to catch her out.

She ties each one without pause, without error, without looking at her hands.