Page 35 of Carry on Wayward Son

“It is.” I met her gaze, committing to what I’d just put out there.

“You’re asking me to a wedding that’s weeks away.” She said it like she was testing the reality of it, making sure she’d heard me right.

“I am.” I didn’t elaborate, didn’t try to explain, or walk it back. I just let it stand.

Surprise, clear and unfiltered, moved across her face, and underneath it something more complicated that she put away quickly, her expression smoothing out before I could read it.

“I wasn’t planning on keeping this a secret,” I added, wanting that clear between us. “Unless you’d prefer it that way?”

“No,” she said, a little slowly, like she was still processing what I’d asked and what it meant. “I don’t want to sneak around. That’s far too hard to do in a place this size anyway. Everyone sees everything.”

“True story.” I shifted the files under my arm. “People on this island have made a sport out of knowing everyone’s business for generations.”

“Yeah. If I’m still here, I’d be happy to be your plus one.” The words came out measured, but there was warmth underneath them.

I grinned, feeling lighter than I had in a while. “Good. See you tomorrow, Tiger.”

She frowned, her head tilting. “Tiger?”

I lifted both fists and mimed a slow punch combination, complete with footwork. “Rocky. You earned it on the mats today.” I pulled the door open, letting in a rush of cool night air. “Night.”

Eighteen

LAYLA

I didn’t sleep well. That wasn’t news—I rarely did—but usually the reasons were the familiar ones. The hypervigilance that had never fully unwired itself, the way my brain kept running threat assessments on every noise the house made, the dreams that weren’t quite nightmares but weren’t restful either.

This time a significant portion of the sleeplessness was Jace’s fault, and it had nothing to do with threat assessment.

My body was still lit up in a way that made the empty bed feel like a bad decision, and part of me—the part that had apparently lost its mind sometime between the gym and the shower—kept circling back to the fact that I could have asked him to stay. He’d lingered in the doorway long enough to make the offer implicit. But that way lay madness. Orgasms, but madness. So I’d let him go, which was the right call, the sensible call, the call that preserved some functional boundary between what this was and what it wasn’t.

By five, I gave up on sleep entirely and pulled on my running gear in the dark.

The beach was cold and empty, the sky still the deep blue-black of pre-dawn, the sound running dark and flat to my left. Koa settled into the pace beside me immediately, his big russet body moving in that effortless lope that could go forever. Like martial arts, running was another way of putting my body to work so my brain could think without eating itself alive. My feet found their rhythm on the hard packed sand along the waterline, and I let my mind off its leash to go wherever it needed to go.

I turned over pieces of the money trail, holding them up in my mind, twisting them this way and that, trying to find a pattern. Mostly, all I found was more questions. This was one of the difficult parts of investigating cold cases. A lot of the records simply didn’t exist anymore. And by cold case standards, this wasn’t even that old. But I had to believe there was something left to find. Some way to prove who was behind Gwen’s kidnapping.

The sky began to lighten in the east, the horizon going from black to deep gray with the impending rise of the sun. Koa’s ears perked, and he slowed without my signal. I followed his lead and searched for what had drawn his attention. When I saw them, I stopped entirely.

The horses milled in the dune grass, perhaps fifty yards ahead. Six of them, picking their way along the edge of the maritime forest in the early morning light. The stallion was in the lead, black or dark gray, moving with the unhurried authority of an animal that had never once in its life needed to ask permission for anything. The others followed, their breaths making small clouds in the cold air.

Something in my chest loosened, quietly and without announcement. Because their appearance felt like a gift. A beautiful welcome back from the island. An acknowledgment I was here. That maybe it wasn’t a mistake.

Slowly, so as not to spook them, I dug out my smallest camera, the one I could carry with me on a run, and lifted it to my eye, framing the scene. I fired off a dozen shots, then stood and watched them until they’d eased into the trees and disappeared.

When I started running again, my mind stayed quiet, and I reveled in the unusual silence. Just the easy movement of my body, my rhythmic breath, the pad of Koa’s paws as he kept pace beside me.

Only when I spotted lights ahead did I register where I was. Sutter House looked down from its imperious position on the highest point of the island. Also, the farthest north point of the island.

Eight miles. I hadn’t meant to go eight miles.

I caught movement and recognized a figure standing at the rail of the wraparound deck. I knew who it was before I was close enough to confirm it. Somehow recognizing the way he stood. I chose not to examine the corresponding lift in my chest too closely.

Jace raised a hand when he saw me coming. He drew me like a moth to the proverbial flame. I had approximately enough remaining self-awareness to notice that, but not enough to do anything about it.

“You’re out early,” he said when I reached the steps from the beach.

“Didn’t sleep much.”