Chapter 28: Reid
The doorbell rings.
I frown, because no one ever uses the damn thing. People who come here—people allowed to come here—have the key. That’s the rule. Quiet, no disturbances. The few exceptions know better than to press the button.
So when the chime cuts through the house, sharp and unexpected, I’m already annoyed as I stride over.
I pull the door open and—Christ—it’s Mrs. Carver. The old woman who runs the lobster stand with her husband down at the wharf. White hair pulled tight into a bun, scarf wound too many times around her narrow shoulders, eyes sharp as gulls even at her age.
“Mrs. Carver?” My voice comes out rougher than intended. Concern prickles the edge of my irritation. “You alright?”
She waves me off with a thin hand. “Of course I am, young man. Don’t look at me like I’ve fallen and broken something. I’ve been walking this town longer than you’ve been breathing.”
My shoulders loosen a fraction, but she tips her head, stepping aside so I can see past her.
“And this lady—this one’s yours, I believe.”
I follow the line of her finger, peer over her shoulder.
Madeline.
She’s in the passenger seat of Mrs. Carver’s car, eyes shut but not asleep. Too still. Then I see it—the shake. Not from the cold. From fear. Trembling so badly I can see it through the glass.
Something lodges hard in my throat.
Mrs. Carver is still talking. Something about finding her on the road, about how she was looking for the research house, how she seemed lost. I only catch half of it until she says the words: something happened to her. She was scared.
And suddenly my chest feels too tight. Angry. Worried. Both, maybe. No—can’t be that.
The car door opens. Madeline steps out, and for a second she looks right at me like I’m the second ghost she’s seen tonight. Pale as sea glass, eyes wide, face tight with panic.
“This was a mistake,” she blurts, voice too quick, too brittle. “It’s not the right place. Sorry to bother you.”
She turns, half-ready to dive back into the car.
“Stop.”
The word leaves me sharper than I mean. She freezes.
I crook a finger, motioning her closer. And just like that, all the sharp edges from earlier—the defiance, the way she argued with me this morning—gone. She’s trembling too much to hold herself up straight.
She steps forward, but not all the way. Just a few hesitant feet, as if the ground between us might crack open.
I glance at Mrs. Carver. “Thank you for helping her.”
The woman nods, lips pursed. She’s no fool; she knows what she saw.
“Get in,” I tell Madeline, jerking my chin toward the house.
She thanks Mrs. Carver in a small voice. Her lip trembles, nearly quivering apart, but she listens to me. Walks past, pale and shaking, into the house.
I shut the door. Let it click closed and lean against it for a beat, exhaling.
She’s standing there, hands twisting together, already speaking too fast, words tripping over each other.
“I’m so sorry, this was a big mistake, I didn’t mean to bother you, please don’t fire me, it won’t happen again—”
“Are you hurt?”
The words cut across her spiral, low and blunt.
She blinks, startled, lips parting. “What?”
I push off the door, step closer, scanning her from head to toe. No obvious injuries. No blood. No ripped clothes. Just that constant trembling, like she’s vibrating out of her own skin.
I want to hold her. To steady her. My fists flex at my sides, nails biting into my palms. Or maybe I want her to leave, so I don’t have to keep looking at her like this.
“Are you hurt?” I repeat, voice clipped.
She shakes her head. “No.”
“What happened?”
Her mouth opens, but the words tangle in her throat. Her lashes are wet, her chin trembling. I hate people who cry. Always have. Hate it more when employees do.
So why the fuck do I want to reach out and wipe the tears sliding down her cheeks? Why do I want to tell her it’s over, she’s safe now?
“I just… got lost,” she manages, breath hitching. “The lady helped me. She brought me here by mistake.”
“There are two SWMRI houses in town,” I say flatly.
She nods quickly, clutching the thought like a lifeline.
“Anyone do anything to you?”
“No.” Her voice is small, but her body is still shaking.
I narrow my eyes. She didn’t just get lost. Not with that look on her face. Not with fear clinging to her like salt air. But I don’t push. Not yet.
Instead, I sigh, reach for the jacket hanging on the hook, grab my keys.
“I’ll drive you home.”
Her head shakes violently. “No. No, you don’t have to. Just tell me which way to go and I’ll find it.”
The motion is so sharp she nearly tips over. Instinct takes over—I catch her elbow, steadying her before she can hit the floor. Her skin is cold under my hand, her body taut as a bowstring.
For one second, those green eyes slam into mine, wide and raw.
“Please,” she whispers. “It’ll be fine.”
I shake my head, jaw tight. “You shouldn’t be out alone at night here.”
“There are people in town,” she argues, weak but still stubborn.
“There are bears. Coyotes. And worse.”
Her eyes widen. “In the town?”
“Sometimes.” I let the word hang, grim. “Why the hell were you out after dark anyway?”
She swallows. “Someone made me review so much data.”
The jab lands squarely. For a flicker of a second, guilt pricks me. Or something that feels too damn close.
She goes on, softer. “And then I watched the sunset. And the sea stars by the wharf. I… lost track of time. I thought I could find my way home but it all looked different in the dark.”
Her voice shakes again, thin and fragile. The trembling ripples through her, and I hate how small she looks in my hallway.
“It’s fine,” I cut in, more gently than I mean to. “You’ll be home in five minutes.”
She exhales, barely nods.
The drive is silent. She keeps her eyes on the window, hands twisted tight in her lap.
I steal glances. At her pale profile, the way she leans against the glass as if it’s the only thing holding her up. And I think—this girl. Watching sunsets. Counting sea stars. Fragile and stubborn all at once.
I’m annoyed at her. For walking into danger. For shaking me out of my order. For making me want to protect her.
She’s trouble. No question.
And yet—I can’t look away.