Page 132 of Take Me Away

‘Now, Piper. Send it now.’

A pause. ‘Isla. Talk to Kit first. Tell him what’s happening. I don’t think you should just⁠—’

‘Send the car, Piper.’

I hang up again.

Switch the phone off again.

And stand in the dark kitchen of the man I love, in the village that finally feels like home, and know with absolute certainty that I’m about to run.

Again.

And I won’t come back.

I didn’t come back the last time because I didn’t want the people I loved to see the damage that had been done to me. Now they will know that for fact.

I won’t be coming back.

Not ever again.

The car ride to London is silent. Just me and the Samsonite and a driver listening to Radio 4.

The taxi doesn’t smell of onions.

He doesn’t ask if I’m that Isla Quinn.

My heart, I think, is broken.

I left Salt Cottage as I found it. Apart from the roof, which is in better state now – thanks to Kit.

Her recipe folder I put back in the sideboard.

It will be like I was never there at all.

I hope they can all forget me again, just like they did before. Once the second wave of scandal has died down, they’ll all forget who Isla Quinn was. They’ll mourn that wonderful man Peter. Sea Salt Bay will continue its sleepy idyllic existence.

My fingers shake as I turn the key in the lock to my Hampstead conversion. The air that hits me as I open the door chills me to my core.

Home.

Home sweet home.

Chapter Thirty

KIT

Iwake to silence.

Not the bad kind – not the heavy, grief-soaked silence that’s filled this cottage since they pulled me from the water. This is different. Lighter. Like the world’s taken a breath and held it, waiting.

There’s still a melody threading through my head. ‘The Parting Glass’. The way the whole pub sang it last night, voices layered and rough and true. The way Isla’s voice blended with mine even though she didn’t know all the words.

I can’t remember the last time I slept without nightmares.

Can’t remember the last time I woke up feeling something other than the crushing weight of everything I’ve lost.

But this morning, there’s something else. Something that feels dangerously close to hope.