Page 5 of Carry on Wayward Son

The phone in my pocket buzzed. In case it was Devon, I dug it out and checked the screen.

Ashley.

I let the call go to voicemail.

It buzzed again immediately. No sense in putting this off, so I answered. “Hey.”

“Where are you.” Not a question.

“On a case. Why?”

“Because I texted Devon.”

Oh fuck.

“Why?”

“Because you’ve been incommunicado for three days, Layla. I was worried.”

“I’m fine. I was driving. You know how I get. In the zone. Lots of power ballads and duets with Koa.”

Hearing his name, my malamute bobbed his russet head and gave a little “Woo!”

“He says, ‘hi,’ by the way.”

Undeterred, my sister just bulled on. “Layla, tell me it isn’t true. Tell me you didn’t take a case there.”

As I couldn’t tell her that, I said nothing.

The silence stretched long enough that I heard the whisper of fir trees outside her house on Orcas. That meant she was on the porch, probably with a cup of tea, probably already knowing the answer before she’d dialed. Because my boss and friend wouldn’t have had any reason to lie to her. He had no idea of my personal agenda around this case.

“Layla,” she whispered.

The silence got heavier, and Koa turned his face up toward mine, though I kept my eyes on the water. “I’m fine, Ash.”

“You said you were never going back there.” Her voice had dropped into the register she used when she was genuinely frightened for me, rather than simply exasperated.

“I know what I said.” Knew the promises I’d made and who I’d made them to.

But some things were more important.

“They wanted Devon, but he’s tied up following some leads on another case, so he sent me instead. It’s only temporary, to get the ball rolling.” That’s what I’d told myself.

“They? Who’s they?”

“The people who asked for our help.”

Ashley made a noise, and I pictured her pinching the bridge of her nose, fingers squeezing her phone until they turned white. “But a case on this island? He needed an assist there, and you said yes?”

“I did.”

“You—” She stopped herself from leveling a barrage of accusations. That I was being reckless. Foolish. Insane. All possibly true and not actually worth repeating. When she spoke again, the fear had sharpened into something more familiar, more sustainable. “Dad is going to lose his mind.”

Understatement of the century.

I defaulted to the same tactic my siblings and I had all used at one time or another during our teen years. “He’s not going to find out yet.” The boat shifted slightly, finding its heading, and I adjusted my balance in the instinctive way of someone who’d spent all her life on water. “I’ll be here a few days. A week at most.” That was the plan. I was taking an enormous risk coming here, and the quicker I did what I needed to do, the better.

“You agreed⁠—”