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Distancing myself was the only way to save her. If she stayed, Nash would use me to lock her away.
The logic was airtight. But as the silence of the empty house pressed against my eardrums, an insidious doubt bloomed in the dark corners of my mind. What if sending her into that war alone wasn’t a rescue operation? What if it was the worst mistake of my life?
The circus descended by noon the next day.
The fire station transformed into a chaotic staging ground. News vans clogged the shoulder of the road, their satellite dishes extended toward the sky. Aggressive people with telephoto lenses camped near the employee parking lot, tracking every movement in and out of the concrete bays.
"Coleridge! Did you hold Sutton against her will?"
"Ben! Did Nash Calloway pay you off?"
"Did you hit her, Ben?"
The questions flew like poisoned darts every time I crossed the asphalt. Keeping my jaw locked, my eyes remained fixed straight ahead. I offered nothing. A blank, stone-faced exterior was the only defense mechanism available. Giving them a single scowl, a raised hand, or a shouted curse would only validate the thug narrative they were trying to feed to the public.
Inside the station, the atmosphere was barely better. The other firefighters offered sideways glances and muttered conversations that died the second my boots hit the linoleum of the day room.
"Just ignore the vultures," Gator advised two days later. My partner leaned against the ambulance, handing me a fresh bottle of polish. "They have the attention span of a gnat. Give it a week, and some politician will do something stupid, and they’ll all swarm out of here."
"I’m not worried about them." I took the bottle and aggressively attacked a smudge on the chrome fender.
"Right." Gator shoved his hands in his pockets, shifting his weight uncomfortably. "Listen, Miller and I... we just wanted you to know we’re here for you. You don’t have to freeze us out."
That made me pause my arm for a moment. "Thanks, Gator. There’s nothing to talk about."
The days melted into a grueling, monotonous blur. Work. Rescues. Clean the rigs. Ignore the whispers. Drive the gauntlet of cameras. Return to the dark, empty cottage.
One night I sat on the edge of the bed and pulled up the keypad on my phone, trying to remember what her voice sounded like when she said my name. But I didn’t even have her phone number or a way to contact her.
On the fourth day I caught Gator in the day room watching the noon news broadcast on the TV. The text under the anchor’s face read EX-HUSBAND CONFIRMS POP SUPERSTAR BACK IN LOS ANGELES. Gator scrambled for the remote when he saw me come in. I didn’t break stride. I walked to the kitchen, poured a coffee I didn’t want, and walked out.
By day five, Gator’s prediction came true. A massive, salacious scandal broke involving a Hollywood A-lister and an illegal offshore gambling ring. The media’s notoriously short memory wiped the Sutton Vale kidnapping-breakdown narrative from the top of the hour. The news vans packed up their cables, and the satellite dishes retracted.
As I drove down my gravel lane on Friday afternoon, the perimeter was completely clear. No drones hovered over the mangroves. No rental sedans blocked the fire road. The siege was officially over.
As I stepped out of the truck, the island breeze ruffled the palms. My quiet life was back. The privacy I had guarded with religious zeal for years was fully restored. As I climbed the porch steps, the victory tasted terrible. I unlocked the door and stepped into the living room. The absence of the press didn’t ease the agonizing knot twisting in my gut.
Dropping my keys into the ceramic bowl, the sharp clatter amplified the emptiness. I walked into the kitchen and cracked open a cold beer. The condensation pooled against my palm. Drifting aimlessly into the living room, my boots stopped near the corner.
The Story & Clark upright piano stood shrouded in shadows. The fallboard was closed. And resting on top of the polished wood, right where I had moved it from the bedroom, was the antique gold locket. Setting the beer down, I picked up the heirloom. Cupping the locket in my palm, I raised my fist and pressed the hard gold edges against my cheek. I closed my eyes, fighting a sudden, violent burn in the back of my throat.
The smell of fried conch and spilled IPA hung heavy in the air at Tidal Hops. Friday night in Dove Key brought a rowdy crowd of locals celebrating the end of the workweek and tourists eager to burn through their vacation funds. A local cover band massacred a Jimmy Buffett song in the corner, competing with the roar of a room of overlapping conversations.
Sitting at the far end of the varnished wood bar, I stared at a condensation ring left by a previous customer. A glass of club soda sweated in my hand. The press was entirely gone from the island, but the isolation remained. Being in a crowded room only magnified the profound sense of detachment.
"You’re nursing that like it’s the last potable water on earth," Braden said, sliding a fresh coaster under my glass. He leaned his elbows on the bar, his face flushed with the adrenaline of the rush. "You want something stronger? On the house. You look like you need a reset."
"I’m fine." My voice sounded rusty to my own ears. "I’m driving."
"You live a mile away, Ben. And your walking speed is faster than your truck right now." Braden studied me, his usual easy grin becoming concerned and pitying. I hated the pity. It showed in Harper’s eyes when she dropped off casseroles I didn’t eat. It showed in Brenna’s hesitation when she called to ask how I was doing. They treated me like a burn victim—fragile, scarred, and painful to observe.
"Don’t need a beer. I’m good. Just tired. Long shift."
"Right. Shift. You survived the media circus. The vans are gone. You should be celebrating."
I shrugged. "Nothing to celebrate about those cockroaches finally skittering away."
Finally giving up trying to cheer me up, Braden tapped the bar twice. "Well, try to look alive. You’re scaring the tourists. You’ve got that brooding gargoyle vibe going strong tonight."
