Chapter 69: Madeline
Yesterday was a blur of boredom.
I spent the whole day at home, as ordered—by the medics, by Jake, by Reid. “Take it easy,” they said. “Rest,” they said.
Right.
The truth is, it hasn’t been long enough since my last day off to earn one. And sitting still when there’s work to do feels wrong. The others were busy anyway—Charlie had deliveries for the new gear, and Liam tagged along to help. Sloane was back and her and Reid went on the boat, checking the latch and making sure everything was safe.
Not that Sloane asked if I was okay. Or talked to anyone, really.
Finn, on the other hand, refused to leave the house at all. Said someone had to keep an eye on me. Which, apparently, pissed Sloane off. I don’t know if it was because he didn’t follow her orders or because he stayed with me. I hope it's not the latter.
Either way, I told him I was fine about ten times. Probably more.
And I was—mostly.
I did get dizzy when I stood too fast once, but I didn’t mention that part.
We spent the day watching movies. Finn let me pick, which meant we watched a mix of thrillers and animated films that made no sense together, but it was nice. Comfortable. He sat on the floor most of the time, leaning against the couch, making sarcastic comments that somehow made me laugh even when I tried not to. I fell asleep more than once, and every time I woke up, the blanket was tucked higher over me.
So yeah. I was glad he stayed. Just in case.
But today—today I feel good.
No dizziness, no nausea. Just a dull ache in my arm that won’t let me forget the size of the cut under the bandage. They said the pain would linger for a bit. I can handle that.
What I can't handle, is being bored.
The silence in the house starts to get under my skin.
No Charlie humming in the kitchen. No Finn dropping random snacks in front of me “just in case.” No Liam asking if I’ve seen his hoodie for the fifth time.
I’ve never been good at doing nothing. So, to keep from losing my mind, I cleaned. Every room. Every counter. Every inch of dust that had been gathering for who knows how long. Judging by the state of the mop I found under the sink, I’m guessing… a while.
When there was nothing left to scrub, I showered. Changed into jeans and my grey henley. It feels strange not to be bundled in three layers and a hat, not to smell salt and diesel from the boat. But it feels good not to look like a big cotton ball, for once.
And after all that—cleaning, showering, pretending I’m not itching to do something—it’s still only eleven.
I stare at the clock. Then at my reflection in the window. Then at the door.
Fine. I can’t sit here all day.
I sigh, grab my jacket, and step outside.
The air is crisp, a little salty, and the streets of Northhaven are washed in that soft late-morning light that makes everything look like a postcard. The houses are lined in neat rows, painted blues and yellows and reds that almost seem to hum in the cool air. A few people pass by—someone walking their dog, two kids on bikes, an older man sweeping his porch.
I know where I want to go.
I’m just not exactly sure how to get there.
I’ve only been once, and that day doesn’t count. Mrs. Carver had found me then—shaking, lost, the world spinning too fast—and brought me there. I hadn’t noticed the way. I’d barely noticed anything at all.
Now, retracing my steps, I try to remember.
Left at the café with the chipped window? Or right at the blue house with the flower boxes?
I choose left.
The streets start to blur together, but I keep walking, trusting instinct more than memory. The wind slips under my jacket, cool against my skin, and for the first time in days, I feel… steady.
I don’t know what I’ll say when I get there.
I just know I need to.
So I keep going—past the bakery, past the dock, past the point where the smell of the ocean grows stronger.
The boards creak under my boots, and I catch myself smiling.
Despite the chaos, the bruises, the blood, the shouting—despite everything—I’m happy to be here.
It’s beautiful.
And for once, I don’t feel like I’m running from something.
I feel like I’m walking toward it.
The sound of quick paws on pavement makes me pause.
I turn just in time to see a golden blur barreling toward me—a dog, tongue out, tail wagging like it’s about to take off into orbit.
I crouch down instinctively, laughing as he crashes right into my knees and immediately starts licking my hand.
“Hey, hey—hi,” I laugh, scratching behind his ears. “You’re friendly, huh?”
His fur is impossibly soft, the kind that smells faintly of salt and grass. He leans into my touch like we’ve known each other for years, and I can’t help but melt a little.
“Sorry! Oh my god, I’m so sorry—he usually doesn’t run off like that!”
I glance up. A girl jogs toward us, breathless and beautiful in that unbothered, natural kind of way. Black curls frame her face, her cheeks flushed from the cold.
I stand up, still petting the dog, and shake my head. “It’s totally fine. He’s the goodest boy.”
Her mouth curves into a grin—bright, effortless. “That he is,” she says, reaching down to clip the leash back on. “Sorry again. Have a good day!”
“Bye,” I manage, watching as she and the dog head off down the street.
For a second, I stay there, hand still warm from the dog’s fur, the ghost of a smile tugging at my lips.
I keep walking until the streets start to thin out—no more shop windows or chatter, just the soft crunch of gravel under my boots. The air smells stronger here, sharper, like salt and pine.
Then I see it.
A narrow road sloping slightly uphill, ending in one solitary house at the top. No mistaking it now.
The other SWMRI house.
I swallow hard. Okay. I made it.
Now what?
The last time I was here, Mrs. Carver had practically dragged me up that hill. My head was spinning, my heart somewhere between panic and blackout. I hadn’t noticed much of anything back then—not the color of the door, not the quiet of this part of town.
Now I do. And it’s… a lot.
I take a breath and start walking again, slower this time, boots crunching against the gravel. My palms are clammy, and I keep telling myself this is fine. Totally normal. Just visiting.
But halfway up, the noise hits me.
Shouting.
Loud. Chaotic.
At least two voices.
And one of them—oh, yeah, no mistaking that—definitely belongs to one of the twins.
I stop dead in my tracks.
“Right,” I mutter under my breath. “Maybe… not the best time to waltz into World War Anderson.”
I pivot, already halfway through my mental escape plan. I can come back later. Or tomorrow. Or, you know, never.
But before I can take another step, the shouting cuts off.
And the door swings open.