Page 145 of Take Me Away

But they already have, haven’t they? They’ve seen the photos. Everyone has.

The thought should make me want to hide more, to stay in the bedroom and pretend I’m not home.

Instead, I find myself moving towards the door.

Barefoot across the cold hardwood. Past the white sofa and the untouched pastries and Piper’s laptop still open on the coffee table.

My hand reaches for the door handle.

Hesitates.

What if I open it and Kit looks at me with pity? Or worse – disgust?

What if Maisie is scared of me now?

What if they’re here to tell me it’s over, that they can’t do this, that seeing those photos was too much?

But then Maisie’s voice comes again, small and worried. ‘Isla, please. We came all this way. We just want to see you.’

We came all this way.

From Cornwall. Four and a half hours at least. Through traffic and motorways and all the way to a city they probably hate.

For me.

I turn the lock. Pull the door open.

And there they are.

Kit, tall and solid and real in his worn jacket and jeans. Dark circles under his eyes. Jaw tight. Hands shoved in his pockets like he doesn’t trust what they might do otherwise.

And Maisie. Small and fierce in her purple jumper, clutching a stuffed animal – Mr Snuggles, she called him once – and staring up at me with those eyes that are too much like her father’s.

For a long moment, no one speaks.

I can’t. Can’t find words. Can’t breathe properly. Can’t do anything except stand there in my stained T-shirt and unwashed hair and feel the full weight of what I’ve lost crashing down on me.

Then Maisie moves, launching herself forward, arms wrapping around my waist, face pressing into my stomach.

‘You left without saying goodbye,’ she says, voice muffled against my shirt. ‘That wasn’t fair.’

My hands hover over her head, uncertain. Then slowly – so slowly – I lower them and rest them on her wild curls.

‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper. ‘I’m so sorry, Maisie.’

‘We came to bring you home,’ she says, leaning back to look up at me. ‘Me and Dad. Because you’re our people and we’re not supposed to let each other run away when we’re scared.’

My eyes sting. Damn it.

‘Maisie, I⁠—’

‘Can we come in?’ Kit’s voice is rough. Careful. Like he’s trying not to scare me. ‘Or we can talk out here if you prefer. But we need to talk, Isla. Actually talk. No running this time.’

I look at him properly then. See the exhaustion written in every line of his face. The hurt. The determination.

He drove four and a half hours with his daughter to find me.

He saw the photos – I know he did, everyone did – and he came anyway.