Chapter 76

Cecilia

I woke to brightness—not the harsh fluorescent kind, but something softer, warmer, like sunlight filtered through gauze. My eyes felt heavy, my body disconnected.

For a moment, I couldn't remember where I was or how I'd gotten here. Then awareness came in fragments.

The canyon. The landslide. Alice.

Panic spiked through me, sharp and immediate, but my body wouldn't respond. I tried to move, tried to open my eyes fully, but everything felt sluggish, weighted down by exhaustion that went bone-deep.

Then I heard it—a voice, familiar and achingly gentle.

"Ceci."

My father's voice.

That couldn't be right. My father was dead. This had to be a dream, some trick my oxygen-deprived brain was playing as I drowned in that freezing water.

But when I finally managed to force my eyes open, there he was.

Robert Locke stood a few feet away, exactly as I remembered him from my childhood—the wire-rimmed glasses, the gentle smile, the particular way he had of looking at me like I was the most important thing in his universe.

"Dad?" My voice came out as barely a whisper, rough and uncertain.

"Hello, sweetheart." He moved closer, and I saw that we weren't in the river anymore. We were somewhere else entirely—a space that was neither bright nor dark, neither warm nor cold. Just was. "You look tired."

"I—" I tried to sit up, but he made a gentle gesture and I found myself upright without having moved. "Am I dead?"

"Not yet." His smile turned wistful. "Though it was a close thing. You always did have a talent for getting yourself into situations."

"Where am I?"

"Somewhere in between." He settled beside me—not sitting exactly, because there was nothing to sit on, but the impression of sitting. "Your body's in the water, fighting to stay alive. Your mind is here with me, trying to decide whether to keep fighting or let go."

The words should have terrified me. Instead, I felt an overwhelming wave of relief so intense it brought tears to my eyes. Because if I was here with him, if this was real even for a moment, then maybe the last thirteen years of missing him could ease just slightly.

"I've missed you so much," I whispered. "Every single day."

"I know, baby girl. I've missed you too." He reached out and brushed a strand of wet hair from my face, and I felt the touch—warm and solid and achingly familiar. "But you can't stay here. Not yet."

"Why not?" The question came out plaintive, childish. "You're here. Why can't I—"

"Because you have a life to live." His expression turned firm, the way it used to when he was teaching me something important. "A beautiful, complicated, messy life with someone who loves you desperately. And I didn't fight as hard as I did, didn't leave you everything I had, just so you could give up now."

"I'm not giving up," I protested, but even as I said it, I could feel the pull of the water, the cold seeping into my bones. Part of me wanted to just stop fighting, to drift, to let the river take me somewhere peaceful where nothing hurt anymore.

"Cecilia Locke." My father's voice took on that particular quality it had when he was disappointed in me—not angry, just sad. "Look at your hand."

I did. On my left hand, Arthur's ring caught the non-light of this in-between place.

"Do you remember what he said when he gave you this?" my father asked.

"He said—" My throat tightened. "He said he'd always be by my side."

He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to my forehead, and I felt warmth spread through me, chasing away some of the cold. "So wake up, baby girl. Open your eyes. Fight your way back to the surface. And when Arthur finds you—because he will find you—you tell him I said thank you."

"Thank you for what?"

"For loving my daughter the way she deserves to be loved." He stepped back, and I could feel the space between us growing even though neither of us had moved.

"Dad, wait—" I reached for him, but he was already fading, the warm light dimming. "Don't go. Please don't go yet."

"I'm always with you, Ceci." His voice came from everywhere and nowhere.

The light flared bright enough to blind me, and then I was falling again—but this time, I knew which way was up.

The cold hit me like a wall.

I gasped, and water filled my mouth, my lungs screaming for air. My eyes flew open to darkness and the roar of the river, and for a disorienting second I couldn't remember where I was or what was happening.

Move. You have to move.

I forced my left hand to move, searching for purchase on the slick rock. My fingers found a crack, barely wide enough to wedge them into, but I held on with everything I had. Then I pulled, inch by agonizing inch, dragging myself up and out of the main current.

The effort left me gasping, my vision swimming with black spots. But I was higher now, my head fully above water, and I could breathe. I could breathe.

I looked around, trying to orient myself. I was in some kind of pocket carved into the canyon wall—a small alcove where the water had eaten away at softer rock, creating a space just large enough for me to fit. The current rushed past the opening, violent and unforgiving, but here in this tiny shelter, the water was relatively calm.

How long have I been here?

I had no way to know. But I was alive. Hurt—my right wrist throbbed with a pain that suggested something broken or badly sprained, and I could feel blood trickling down my leg from a gash I couldn't see—but alive.

I looked up at the canyon walls rising above me, slick with water and moss, and felt my heart sink. Even if I hadn't been injured, even if I wasn't on the edge of hypothermia, that climb would have been difficult. In my current state, it was impossible.

So I'd wait. I'd wait and I'd stay conscious and I'd trust that Arthur would find me.

Because he will find you. He always finds you.

I don't know how long I sat there, pressed against the rock, fighting to stay awake. Time became meaningless, measured only in the rhythm of my chattering teeth and the slow, painful effort of each breath.

I tried to focus on Arthur—on the memory of his voice, his touch, the way he looked at me like I was the answer to every question he'd ever had.

I tried to hold onto the warmth of my father's presence in that in-between place, the certainty in his voice when he'd told me to fight.

But the cold was insidious, creeping deeper with each passing minute, making it harder to think, harder to care. My eyelids kept trying to close, my body begging for sleep that I knew would be permanent if I gave in.

Just a few more minutes. Just hold on a little longer.

I was so focused on staying conscious that I almost didn't hear it at first—a voice, distant and distorted by the canyon walls, calling my name.

"Cecilia!"

My head snapped up, my heart suddenly hammering. That voice. I knew that voice.

"Cecilia! Can you hear me?"

"Here!" I tried to shout, but my voice came out as barely a croak, my throat raw from the river water I'd swallowed. "I'm here!"