Page 31 of Take Me Away

‘No promises,’ I say, but she’s already hung up.

I drop the phone again and stare at the ceiling. Piper’s coming. Piper with her colour-coded schedules and complete intolerance of self-pity.

I should probably get out of bed. Maybe even shower. Definitely brush my teeth.

But my limbs still feel like they’re made of concrete, and the effort required seems monumental.

Five more minutes, I tell myself. Five more minutes of quiet before I have to prepare for the hurricane that is Piper Chen arriving to drag me back to reality.

Five more minutes becomes ten. Then twenty. Then I’m not sure how much time has passed because I’m staring at that water stain again, thoughts circling like vultures over a carcass.

Is this what giving up feels like? This strange, numb detachment from everything? I should be fighting back. I should be calling Richard, issuing statements, defending myself.

Instead, I’m hiding in my dead grandmother’s cottage.

My stomach growls, reminding me that crackers and chocolate digestives don’t constitute a sustainable diet. When was the last time I ate a proper meal and not crumbled snacks? The fish bap from Frankie and Bill’s shack? That was … four days ago? Five? A lifetime.

I should eat something. I should definitely eat something.

I don’t move.

Outside, the sky is the particular shade of grey that could mean it’s morning or afternoon or anywhere in between. Maggie would be horrified at me lying in bed past 7 am. ‘The day doesn’t wait for lazybones, Isla Quinn,’ she’d say, yanking open the curtains with military precision.

God, I miss her. I miss her certainty. Her absolute conviction about right and wrong. What would she say about all this? About Marcus and the allegations and the backlash?

She’d say something like ‘Well, you’ve made your bed, haven’t you? Now either lie in it or get up and make it again, but don’t whine about the wrinkles.’

Practical to a fault, my grandmother.

With an effort that feels Herculean, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and sit up. The room spins briefly, a reminder that humans need food and water to function properly. Method-acting starvation might win Oscars, but it’s not sustainable as a lifestyle choice.

I catch sight of myself in the antique mirror above the dresser and barely recognise the woman staring back. Pale, hollow-cheeked, dark circles like bruises under my eyes. My blonde hair is a nest of tangles, my lips chapped and colourless.

Piper will have a fit when she sees me.

I manage to stand, moving like an old woman, joints stiff from too much stillness. The bathroom awaits, promising hot water and the vague possibility of feeling human again.

But as I pass the window, something catches my eye. A small figure in a bright yellow raincoat, standing at the garden gate, looking up at the cottage.

Maisie Harding, rain hat firmly in place, clutching what appears to be a paper bag.

Our eyes meet, and she waves enthusiastically, as if spotting a celebrity in the wild – which, I suppose, is exactly what’s happening.

‘Perfect timing, kid,’ I mutter, raising a hand in a weak wave back. ‘Absolutely perfect.’

Chapter Eight

KIT

‘Maisie?’ I call for the third time, irritation climbing up my spine. She was right there in the garden with Cap not fifteen minutes ago when I’d gone to answer a call from Jude about the hydraulics on Dad’s boat – again. Now both of them are gone.

I check her usual hiding spots – the old apple tree with the low branches, the shed with the abandoned rabbit hutch, the stone wall where she used to collect snails, before collecting wildlife became babyish and YouTube shorts were staple. Nothing.

A prickle of unease replaces the irritation. Sea Salt Bay is safe enough, everyone knows everyone, but Maisie has a knack for finding the one dangerous thing in any given situation. Last month she decided to ‘surf’ on a floating dock that had come loose from its moorings. The month before, she attempted to befriend a seal pup whose mother had been circling nearby.

‘Cap!’ I call, knowing the old dog rarely strays far from Maisie. No answering bark.

I pull out my phone, about to call Nina and see if Maisie has gone there, when a sinking feeling hits. Maisie would never just head off somewhere, unless the lure of something new and shiny outweighed breaking rules.