Page 164 of Pull Me Under

Where do I go now?

Not Dad’s cottage.

Not the hospital. Kit’s there. Dad’s there. And I can’t sit in that chair for another minute without losing what’s left of my mind.

I could find Brynn.

But what would I say? Sorry I threw you out without letting you explain. Sorry I blamed you for sins that weren’t yours. Sorry I’m exactly like my father – quick to accuse, slow to listen.

I end up at the harbour. Parked by the sea wall, watching the boats rock in their moorings. The Mary Jane’s out there somewhere, tied up where Dad always keeps her.

Three generations of Hardings.

I don’t want to be the fourth.

I recline the seat. Pull my jacket tighter. The truck isn’t warm, but it’s shelter. It’s somewhere that isn’t haunted.

Tomorrow I’ll figure out what to do. Tomorrow I’ll decide whether to chase a woman who left without a word, or let her go the way I let everything go.

Tonight I just lie here in the dark, alone, and try to figure out how I became the kind of man who destroys the things he loves.

Chapter Thirty-One

BRYNN

Isuppose I don’t really know what I’m expecting. Maybe because my life after Sea Salt Bay was painted in shadows of shadows and festering disappointment that eventually ate my dad away, I think Helen Harding’s home will be the same.

That’s if it is still her home.

All I know is I’m standing at the end of a garden path, lined with daffodils bobbing their heads under the April sun, staring at a semi that’s gleaming with shiny windows and a pillar-box-red front door.

Am I doing this?

Am I really going to walk up that path and knock?

One thing that can’t be said about me is that I’m chicken shit. So I do, hand unsteady as I press the doorbell, stomach in knots.

‘Coming,’ a voice calls the other side and I’m holding my breath.

The door opens.

She’s older than I expected. Which is stupid – of course she’s older. Twenty years have passed. But somehow I’d frozen her in my mind as the woman from my father’s letters, the Helen who existed before everything fell apart.

Her hair is silver now, cut short and practical. Lines around her eyes, around her mouth. But there’s familiarity in the shape of her face, the placement of her shoulders, the tilt of her chin. Something I’ve seen before.

In Jude.

‘Can I help you?’

Her voice is warm. Cautious but kind. The voice of a woman who answers doors to strangers and doesn’t assume the worst.

I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.

Say something, Trelawney. You drove hours for this.

‘I’m—’ My voice cracks. I clear my throat. ‘My name is Brynn. Brynn Trelawney.’

The colour drains from her face. For a long moment she just stares at me. Her hand tightens on the door frame, knuckles going white.