Chapter 88 The Calm Before The Storm

Chapter 88 The Calm Before The Storm
Anna’s POV

The house was too quiet once Courtney fell asleep.
She’d insisted on staying over, claimed she didn’t trust the night after everything we’d been through, and I hadn’t argued. We’d changed into oversized hoodies, sat on my bed with the lights low, talking in soft circles until exhaustion finally won. She’d drifted off curled toward the wall, breathing slow and even.
I, on the other hand, couldn’t close my eyes. I sat by the window, knees pulled to my chest, watching the streetlight flicker across the empty road outside. Every passing car made my heart stutter. Every shadow felt heavier than it had any right to be.
The truth had detonated tonight.
Not just Liam’s confession. Not just Ramsey’s name spoken out loud in a way that couldn’t be swallowed back down.
But Marcus.

The way his face had changed when Liam said the words. The way he looked over at me when the truth behind that horrific night came to light. Eleanor McKay didn't die because of me. She was murdered.
I pressed my palm flat against the glass, breathing slowly, grounding myself the way I’d learned to do over the last week—since hospitals, sirens, fear had become far too familiar. My phone buzzed softly in my hand.
Marcus.
I didn’t hesitate. I stepped into the hallway, closing my bedroom door quietly behind me, and answered.
“Hey,” I whispered.
“Hey,” he said back.
His voice sounded tired. Not just physically—bone-deep tired, the kind that came from carrying too much for too long.
“Did you get home okay?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “Courtney’s asleep. I’m… awake.”
He let out a breath I could practically feel through the phone. “Same.”

I leaned against the wall, sliding down until I was sitting on the floor. “Damian told Courtney you guys went to the hospital.”
“Yeah,” he replied softly. “We told dad.”
I closed my eyes. “How did he take it?”
There was a pause.
Then, “He cried.”
My chest tightened.
“I’ve never seen him do that before,” Marcus continued. “Not once.”
I imagined Richard McKay—controlled, imposing, always ten steps ahead—breaking in a hospital bed under the weight of the truth. It made everything feel more real. More final.
“And?” I asked gently.
“And he’s done playing nice,” Marcus said. “He’s going after Ramsey. Publicly.”
I nodded even though he couldn’t see me. “Good.”
“He said Mom deserved justice,” Marcus added, his voice catching slightly. “Said he should’ve been braver. And he's so regretful that he chose to believe the lie and blame you.”

I swallowed hard. “She would be proud of him for this. And I've already forgiven your dad.”
Another quiet pause settled between us, heavy but not uncomfortable.
“Anna,” he said eventually.
“Yeah?”
“I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted. “Knowing. I don’t know how to exist with it yet.”
My heart ached for him.
“You don’t have to know how yet,” I said. “You just have to let yourself feel it. I’ll sit in it with you as long as you need.”
His breath hitched slightly. “You shouldn’t have to.”
“I want to,” I said immediately. “That’s the difference.”
He was quiet for a long moment.
Then, very softly, “Thank you.”

After we hung up, I stayed on the floor for a while, phone resting in my palm, staring at the wall like it might offer answers if I waited long enough. Eventually, I stood and went back to my room.
Courtney stirred slightly as I crawled back into bed, murmuring something unintelligible before settling again. I lay on my back, eyes tracing the faint glow of the ceiling, thoughts drifting inexorably back to Marcus. To Eleanor McKay. To a lake that had stolen a life and hidden the truth for far too long.

The next morning, the house buzzed with a strange, fragile normalcy. My mom moved quietly through the kitchen, coffee mug in hand, her eyes flicking to me more often than usual. She hadn’t asked many questions last night—just pulled me into a hug that lingered longer than normal and told me she loved me.
Now, she watched me over the rim of her mug.
“You didn’t sleep,” she said gently.
I smiled faintly. “Is it that obvious?”
She set the mug down. “Do you want to talk about it?”
I hesitated. Some things felt too big to say out loud yet. Too raw.
“Soon,” I said. “I promise.”
She nodded, accepting that answer, and reached out to squeeze my hand. “Marcus okay?”
“As okay as he can be,” I replied.

The doorbell rang, sharp and sudden. My heart jumped.
“I’ll get it,” I said quickly, already moving.
When I opened the door, Marcus stood there.
Crutches under his arms. Jacket zipped up to his chin. Dark circles under his eyes. And that familiar, crooked half-smile that never failed to undo me.
“Hey,” he said.
For a second, I just stared at him. Then I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around him carefully, mindful of his knee but needing the contact too much to stop myself. He leaned into me, resting his forehead against my shoulder.
“Hi,” I whispered.
He exhaled slowly. “I needed to see you.”
“Come in,” I said immediately.
Courtney appeared at the end of the hall, eyes widening. “Oh good. You brought the wounded hero.”
Marcus huffed. “I hate all of you.”
Damian and Peter followed him in, Damian offering a small smile as Courtney rushed into his arms, Peter already eyeing the kitchen like he owned it.
“Smells like pancakes,” Peter said. “I almost died last night. I deserve sustenance.”

Despite everything, I laughed.
It felt strange—laughing with the truth sitting so heavily between us—but also necessary. Proof that life didn’t stop just because pain existed.
We ended up in the living room, sprawled across couches and chairs, coffee cups and plates scattered everywhere. My mom retreated discreetly, giving us space without needing to be asked. Marcus sat beside me, his hand resting lightly against mine. Not gripping. Not clinging. Just there.
“I keep thinking about her,” he said suddenly.
The room went quiet.
“Mom,” he clarified. “Not just how she died. But how she lived.”
I turned toward him fully. “Tell me.”
“She loved terrible music,” he said with a faint smile. “Like… aggressively bad.”
Damian snorted. “Oh my God, the road trips.”
Peter shook his head. “She sang at full volume. No shame.”
Marcus’s smile wobbled but didn’t disappear. “She used to tell us that truth always has a way of surfacing. That lies can only float for so long.”
I swallowed. “She was right.”
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “She was.”

He squeezed my fingers once, just a brief, grounding pressure.
“I don’t know what comes next,” he admitted. “For any of us.”
I met his gaze, steady and certain. “We face it. Together.”
He nodded slowly. “Together.”
As sunlight streamed through the windows and filled the room with warmth, I felt it—fear still lingered, grief still raw—but beneath it all was something solid.
The truth was out. The silence was broken.