Chapter 53: Reid
The sky’s the color of bruised twilight—deep purple bleeding into black—and she’s walking just ahead of me, hair moving with the wind, like the night’s trying to pull her in.
We’re almost at her house when she says it.
“Sorry.”
I don’t answer. Just keep my pace steady beside her. She says it again, quieter this time.
“For running out earlier. For… making you waste your time on me.”
My jaw flexes, but I stay silent. I don’t trust my voice right now.
“And—” she exhales, like it costs her something, “thank you. For checking in. Even if…” Her eyes flick toward me, cautious. “Even if you’re not really happy I’m here.”
That lands harder than it should. Like a small, sharp thing straight to the ribs.
Because she’s not wrong. I’m not happy she’s here. Haven’t been since the day she showed up—shy, unsteady, too soft for this place.
But that’s not the whole truth, is it?
It’s not her presence that eats at me. It’s what it does to me.
Still, I say nothing. Just shove my hands deeper into my jacket pockets, stare at the road ahead.
She mistakes the silence for agreement. I can tell by the way her shoulders slump, by the way she nods to herself like she knew it all along.
That I hate her. That I want her gone.
If only it were that simple.
Because what I want—what I hate myself for wanting—is to stop her right here.
To grab her waist, pull her back against the stone wall by her steps, tilt her chin until her eyes meet mine.
Tell her she’s wrong. That I don’t hate her, not really.
I hate how she confuses me.
I hate how fragile she looks and how my first instinct is to protect that fragility when I don’t protect anyone.
I hate that she makes me forget I ever learned how to be cold.
And I’d hate it more than anything if she ever left Northhaven.
But I don’t say any of that.
I just watch her climb down the steps, small hand on the wall, the light from her window catching in her hair.
She turns once, gives me a faint smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
And I nod, a stiff, silent gesture that feels all wrong, before turning back toward the sea.
Because if I stay one second longer, I’ll tell her everything I’m not supposed to feel.
Behind me, somewhere down the steps, Finn’s laugh bursts out first, loud and easy, and then Liam’s deeper voice follows, calling her name like they’ve just spotted her through the window. They sound relieved. Happy. Like bringing her home was the only mission that mattered.
I stand there for a second, back still to the house, listening to them. Their footsteps crunch on the gravel, closer, their easy banter spilling into the quiet street like warm light.
And it does something jagged to me—hearing them so unguarded, hearing them happy she’s safe while all I can do is stand here like a shadow.
Their voices fade behind me. Hers too.
And I tell myself it’s better this way, that whatever she needs, they can give it.
But the knot under my ribs only pulls tighter.
When I push the door open to Jake and I's SWMRI house, it's wholly dark except for the low orange glow spilling from the living room. Jake’s stretched out on the couch, one arm draped lazily over the back, half a grin already tugging at his mouth when he looks up.
“Another hour with Madeline too much for you?” he says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “You look like hell.”
I grunt, dropping down on the chair beside him, the leather sighing under my weight. “Something like that.”
He chuckles, slow and knowing. “What’d she do this time? Breathe too loud? Exist too close?”
I shoot him a look, but he doesn’t flinch. He never does. Everyone thinks I hate her. Jake included. Maybe it’s easier that way. It’s believable, at least.
But tonight—
I don’t know why I tell him.
Maybe it’s the exhaustion. Maybe I just want someone else to carry a bit of whatever the hell is crawling under my skin.
So I tell him.
Not everything—just enough. About that first night Mrs. Carver brought her in, shaking like a leaf, barely breathing.
And tonight, the way she froze at a phone call, the way she looked like the world was collapsing just from a number on a screen.
Jake sits up straight, the grin gone. Shock flashes first, then something darker. “What the hell?” he mutters. “Who was it?”
“I don’t know.”
He runs a hand through his hair, frowning. “Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe she’s just… got social anxiety or something.”
“Maybe,” I say, though I don’t believe it.
Because I saw her eyes.
That wasn’t anxiety. That was terror.
But I don’t tell him that part. I just stare at the floor, the old wood creaking under my boots, and let the silence stretch.
Jake finally exhales, long and low. “You checked her file?”
“Yeah. Nothing.”
He hums under his breath, still thinking. “Weird.”
Weird doesn’t even begin to cover it.
I lean back against the couch, closing my eyes, and all I can see is her face in the glow of the setting sun—too pale, too fragile, too damn brave for her own good.
“Yeah,” I say. “Weird.”
But the truth is, I know it’s something worse.
Something she’s not ready to tell anyone.
And the thought of that—of her carrying it alone—sits in my chest like a weight I can’t shake.
The house goes quiet again after that—just the hum of the old heater and the faint tick of the wall clock. Jake’s already slouched back on the couch, phone in hand, scrolling aimlessly like the conversation never happened.
I sit there longer, eyes on the floor, trying to unknot the mess in my head. None of it works. The image of her—standing there on the rocks, trembling, trying so damn hard to pull herself together—won’t leave me.
Finally, I drag a hand down my face and break the silence. “What’s on the roster tomorrow?”
Jake looks up, thumb still hovering over his screen. “Weather’s good. Back on the water. I’ll captain since Sloane’s out.”
I nod slowly, letting that settle. “Charlie need me here?”
He shakes his head. “Nope. She’s good. Says she can handle the data entry with the city interns.”
“Then I’ll go too,” I say.