Page 134 of Take Me Away

That thought sits wrong in my gut, but I ignore it.

She’s here. Somewhere. She promised.

And for the first time in twenty years, since my mum left, I’m letting myself believe someone when they promise to stay.

I head for the stairs, already planning breakfast. Scrambled eggs, maybe. Toast that’s not burnt. Coffee strong enough to strip paint.

I’ll make it for her. For us.

Because that’s what you do when someone stays.

You make breakfast.

You paint the walls green.

You build a life.

The stairs creak under my feet – the third one especially, the one that always wakes Maisie when I try to sneak past her room at night. But this morning, there’s no small voice calling out ‘Dad?’ No padding of feet. Just the old wood settling, the cottage breathing around me.

The kitchen should smell like coffee. Or burnt toast. Or that vanilla-and-salt scent that follows Isla around like she’s carrying the sea in her hair.

It doesn’t.

It smells like nothing. Like a room that’s been empty all night.

The kettle’s cold when I touch it. The mugs sit in their neat row on the windowsill, unused. The breadboard is clean. No crumbs. No evidence of breakfast started and abandoned.

‘Isla?’

My voice falls flat in the empty space.

I check the living room. The sofa still has the dent from where I sat last night, watching her and Maisie draw starfish. The blanket’s folded. The cushions straightened.

Too neat. Too tidy. Like someone’s covered their tracks.

My chest tightens.

She’s probably just gone back to Salt Cottage. Wanted a change of clothes.

That’s normal. That’s fine. That’s⁠—

I head for the door, barefoot, not bothering with shoes. The cobbles are cold and damp under my feet, still wet from last night’s mist. The morning air tastes like salt and seaweed, that low-tide smell that means the harbour’s pulled back, exposing rocks and mud and secrets.

The lane’s empty. Just gulls crying overhead and the distant hush of waves.

Salt Cottage sits quiet at the top of the hill.

No lights on.

No sign of life.

I knock anyway. Three sharp raps that echo too loud in the morning stillness. ‘Isla? You in there?’

Nothing.

I try the handle. Locked.

She could be inside, sleeping, ignoring me because⁠—