Scene 31

I burrowed deeper into the hood of my sweatshirt, avoiding eye contact with the man across the aisle who kept glancing my direction. In my vanity, I worried he might have recognized me from the plethora of Sand Seekers promo photos circulating the internet, which had been released a few days earlier when we'd wrapped up shooting in Scotland. But as I shifted to angle my body away from him, I realized, in my rush down the broken escalator to catch the late-night train to London, I'd spilled half my mocha onto my beige leggings.

It wasn't a great look. Between the coffee stain, the dark circles under my eyes, my hair falling out of its messy bun, and the midnight train ride, it didn't take much to guess what he thought of me. I half expected him to drop a few coins into my empty coffee cup as he disembarked one stop before Paddington Station.

As the train started moving again, the dark world gliding by outside the foggy windows, I began to wonder if I'd lost my mind.

Everyone from the film production was already home in Los Angeles, taking advantage of the ten-day hiatus before we were due back in the studio. And here I was, traipsing through London in the middle of the night.

Which was nothing, compared to three days earlier, when I'd rented a car in Aberdeen, and, despite having never driven on the wrong side of the road—and I say wrong side, because every time I got to a right-hand turn, I assure you, it felt wrong—made the trip from the northern coast of Scotland to the furthest point of South Wales. That , no doubt, was the beginning of my decline into insanity.

But in fairness, it had been quite a week.

Initially, after watching a reel of Dillon collapse on the course in Yokohama, I'd assumed I hadn't heard from her because she was still being treated in the hospital. I'd considered jumping on a flight to Japan. But then I came across a post from British Triathlon stating that, despite suffering heat exhaustion and postural hypotension, Dillon had been released from medical the evening of the race. And still, her phone went straight to voicemail.

Two more days went by and I began to think she iced me out. It just didn't make sense. We'd spoken daily for months. After all the delays with my shooting in Greenland, it had even worked out for us to rearrange our schedules, planning a few days together in London after she got home from Japan.

But there was no other explanation.

When filming wrapped up in Scotland, I knew I should go home. I had no reason to stay. Still, I'd found myself unable to board a plane. Not without some closure. Not without knowing for sure.

So I hunted down every article I could find on Seren Sinclair, until I found the name of her training barn in Wales— Golden Crest Farms . And then, like the fool I was beginning to feel I was, drove five-hundred sixty miles to Swansea, to pay an unexpected visit to a woman who I wasn't even certain knew I existed.

"You must be Kameryn," was the first thing she said, however, when she brought her horse down to a walk and approached where I'd stood watching on the rail.

From the photos I'd seen online, I knew Seren looked nothing like her sister.

Tall, willowy, dark-featured, with a gorgeous olive complexion that radiated a life spent outdoors on the back of a horse.

It was surprising, then, to find so much of her reminded me of Dillon.

As she sat with her reins resting on a chestnut gelding's withers, it was obvious she shared the same tranquil stillness, the same quiet confidence I was so attracted to in her sister. A little more serious, a little more somber, but reminiscent of Dillon all the same.

I'd prepared a dozen ways to explain who I was, and why I was there, but they turned out to be unnecessary.

"I imagine you're here about my sister."

Just like Dillon, Seren seemed inclined to skip the pleasantries, cutting straight to the heart of the conversation.

"I—yes. I haven't been able to reach her."

"No," she said simply. "Nor have I." Swinging down from the saddle, she waved for a waiting groom. "I understand you ride. If you want to hack out with me, we'll talk about Dillon."

Fifteen minutes later, in a pair of borrowed field boots and a Troxel that smelled like sweat, I followed Seren on a quiet lesson horse out a rear gate and down a wooded trail. When we came to the bottom of the hill, into a valley of chest-high grass, Seren slowed her young mount, allowing us to ride side-by-side.

"My sister is a destructive perfectionist," she said without preamble as we ducked under the hanging branches of an enormous hornbeam. "She's always been a chaser of unattainable goals. And when she isn't winning—and sometimes even when she is—her mind leads her to believe she isn't good enough." She paused, helping her horse across a ditch cut from the rain. "I'd like to blame it on Henrik," she said shortly, not asking me if I knew who he was.

It was clear she knew exactly what I knew—and what I didn't. It was obvious few secrets were kept between the two Sinclairs.

"But even though it may have been exacerbated by him, it's something I've had to come to accept is just part of who she is." She soothed the hot young warmblood as a branch brushed across his flank, and a ridiculous part of me couldn't help but think how much my mother would love her quiet seat and gentle hands.

I turned my attention away from her horsemanship. "Where is she?"

Seren hiked a narrow shoulder. "I don't know."

"Has she done this before?"

"Yes." She didn't hesitate to answer. "But not in many years."

When ? I wanted to ask, but didn't feel it was overtly relevant. Instead, I went with my more pressing concern. "Should we be worried?"

The gelding fussed with his snaffle, wanting to snack on the tops of the meadow grass, and Seren spent longer than was necessary schooling him, taking her time to respond.

"I'm not sure," she said at last, and the candor in her tone made my heart quicken. "But honestly," she turned to look at me, rallying half a smile that did nothing to successfully hide her own distress, "she's probably fine. She'll resurface in a day or two and our mam will give her a right telling-off."

We let the conversation drift. Seren asked me about my mom and her career with horses, and I asked her about her quest toward the Olympic Games. I realized, by the nonchalance of her answer, that representing Great Britain was not the end goal for her, but simply part of her journey as an equestrian. Unlike her sister, she didn't seem to view life in singular achievements, but instead enjoyed all the small successes along the way.

It was something I could understand. It was the same way I felt when she asked me about Sand Seekers , and what I looked forward to most in starring in what was sure to be a blockbuster film. She seemed to believe me when I said I just really wanted to do the story justice—that would be the pinnacle achievement for me.

By the time we dismounted, the globe of the sun had disappeared beneath the horizon. The horses were sent off with a groom as I unclipped the helmet and wiped sweat and hair from the borrowed boots, before Seren walked me to my car in the gravel driveway.

"When my sister turns up—" when , I noted she said, still trying to ease my concern, "I know it's unfair to ask this of you, but go easy on her, if you can. I truly don't believe she realizes what she puts everyone through."

"I just want her to be ok." The statement didn't remotely express how desperately I wanted to see her sister. How much she meant to me. But, I imagined driving the entire length of the UK probably spoke for itself.

"Trust me, you'll be angry later." She tapped the calf of her boot with a riding crop she'd carried with her in her back pocket, and waved goodbye as the sign for Golden Crest Farms disappeared in my rearview mirror.

And as I stepped out of Paddington Station and failed to hail the third cab that sped past me in the pouring rain, I realized Seren hadn't been wrong.

I was angry. And growing angrier by the minute.

Dillon had called me an hour and a half earlier. I'd been sitting in my hotel room near Heathrow, where I'd stayed the last two nights after driving to Wales, and had been in the process of booking a flight leaving for LAX in the morning. With little more than a week before I was due back in Los Angeles, I'd resigned myself to going home. I knew I couldn't wait around in the UK forever.

She hadn't said much on the phone.

I asked her if she was okay.

Yes.

She asked me where I was.

Reading .

She asked me if I'd be willing to see her in the morning before I left for LA.

Okay .

I told her to text me her address.

And we hung up.

My text tone chimed a moment later, and after a few minutes of staring at the flight itineraries on my computer screen, I snapped my laptop shut, pulled on my UCLA hoodie, stuffed my feet into a pair of Uggs, and walked out of the shoebox-sized room.

I'd turned in the rental car after leaving Swansea—I couldn't handle another roundabout—so I walked a block to Reading Station and grabbed a coffee at Pret a Manger, almost missing the last late-night train to Paddington.

And there I now stood, drenched by the downpour, cussing at the passing cabs, and regretting my decision to not wait until morning.

Yeah, angry didn't quite cover it.

By the time I got to South Bank, and had shouldered my way into the lobby of Dillon's apartment building, I'd decided I was going to slap her. A decision that sounded more and more promising as I slipped past the sleeping concierge and discovered I needed a keycard for the elevator, so instead found myself panting up eleven flights of stairs.

It turned out I was all bluster.

The moment she opened the door, I forgot all about my anger.

She looked different than I had last seen her, more than four months earlier.

I know it was the middle of the night, and I had surprised her, arriving unannounced, but still, she was less put together than I'd expected. Her hair was longer, hanging shaggy below her ears, and her cheeks were gaunt, her t-shirt loose on her body—a testament that she'd lost more weight than she could afford to lose. I was taken aback by the dark circles under her eyes, heavily contrasted by the paleness of her face.

But still, when she smiled at me after losing the look of startlement at the unexpected intrusion, she had the same mild composure, the same equable good nature I'd learned to love so much.

"You're a little early," she said, and the next thing I knew, I'd flung myself into her arms.

I could be angry later. I wouldn't let her off the hook that easy. But for the moment, the unburdening relief of seeing her there, in flesh and blood, alive and well, was all I could focus on. It had unlodged the seed of fear that had taken root, spreading the idea that I might never see her again. And with its uprooting came a flood of tears I could no longer contain.

"Hey," she soothed when she realized I was crying. The force of my embrace had pushed us several steps into her hall, and with my eyes still squeezed shut, I could feel her reach to close her door. "Come here, Kam-Kameryn." She pressed her lips to my temple, wrapping me in her arms.

"I thought you were gone," I choked into her neck as she stroked my rain-slogged hair.

"Shhh," her lips brushed my wet cheeks, traveling to my mouth. "I'm right here."

I let her kiss me. I let her turn my thoughts from all my questions—from all my anxieties and fears. Later, I would ask her the things I wanted to know. But for the moment, all I wanted was to forget everything for a while. To feel whole again, the way she'd made me feel in LA. And to find a way to make her feel the same.

Angry voices filtered through the closed door.

One, I realized, in my blinking wakefulness, was Dillon's. The other I did not know.

It was morning. The day was bright, the skyline of London visible through the bedroom window. In my midnight arrival, I hadn't really familiarized myself with Dillon's apartment. Bedroom. Bathroom. That's pretty much as far as I'd gotten.

I would have liked to have had a moment to examine my surroundings. To take in the simplicity that was just Dillon. The navy blue comforter that matched the open curtains. The streamline furniture sparsely stationed against the walls: bed, dresser, single bedside table. There was a framed photo—Dillon and Seren as young teenagers, piggyback and laughing—and a smaller print tucked into the corner of the frame—a man, young and handsome, holding a toddler with white blonde hair. It was Dillon's father, no doubt, and I would have liked to look closer, but the voices had grown louder, and the altercation more intense.

"You're a bloody selfish cunt, Sinc! Don't you dare tell me to tone it down!" came the unfamiliar voice, thick with what I'd recently come to recognize as a Northern English accent. "You think it's fair, marra, to disappear—leave us all thinking you're belly up, floating around with the driftwood off some Japanese beach—and then just turn up and carry on? I had to hear it from Seren that you'd resurfaced—"

"Sam," Dillon's tone was softer, more placating, "I was going to call you today. Now just hear me for a moment—"

"Don't you try to put the lid on me, man!"

Unable to find my leggings—I might have left them in the hall—I rummaged through Dillon's dresser, finding a pair of shorts and t-shirt to pull on.

"Seven bloody days, Sinc! I even called Kelsey, for fuck's sake!"

Whatever pacifying attempt Dillon made backfired.

"You think you can shush me? If you didn't want me radgie on your doorstep, you should have thought about that before—"

"Simmer, mate—"

There was some kind of scuffle, and a muffled thud, before I heard Dillon curse.

"Damn you, Hunt!"

Barefoot, my hair still haloed in a rat's nest, I rushed out the bedroom to find Dillon pinned against her entryway wall. The woman, not much taller than me, but twice my weight in muscle, had her forearm jammed against Dillon's chest, and her other arm drawn back, promising another blow.

"Swing again at me, man—let's have a bloody go!"

I don't know what I was thinking. Dillon probably could have held her own—though in the woman's fury, the stranger definitely seemed to have the upper hand. But in the split second I had to make a decision, I lunged forward, grabbing the woman by her waist, and knocked her legs out from under her with a forceful sweep of my foot, tumbling us both to the ground.

Five years in LA and two self-defense classes later, it turned out to be my stunt training for Sand Seekers that actually served as a practical application.

"What the—" outraged, the woman bellowed beneath me, but I pressed her firmer into the hardwood floor.

"Hey!" I'd managed to get a grip on her tightly spiraled hair. "Chill out!"

"Kam…" Dillon dropped to her knees beside me. "It's all right—honest, let her go."

Nothing seemed quite all right about the way I was certain this thrashing, livid woman was going to get up and pummel the crap out of me, but I did as Dillon bade, and stepped off her, quickly backing away.

"You fucking wanker!" To my surprise, as the woman scrambled to her feet, she didn't come after me, but instead bent over, fussing with her knee.

It took a moment to realize that she was realigning a prosthetic. I'd just blindside-dropped a woman to the ground, dislodging her bionic leg.

"I—I'm so…" I stopped. I mean, what? She'd had Dillon in a wall pin. What was I supposed to do?

Her slew of curses ceased abruptly as she turned dark eyes to me, her face shifting from fury into a delighted grin. "Oh my God." She stood up straighter. "Dog shot by Addison Riley herself!"

"Sam—" Dillon tried to cut in.

" You , not a word," the woman flicked a finger in Dillon's direction, "I'm still of a mind to drill you into the floor." But her tone was lifted, the lividity gone. She smiled at me. "You're a lot cheekier than you look in photos. Stronger, too," she laughed. "Gotta admit, fit as you are, you'd look even more lush coming out of my bedroom with a hickey on your neck, wearing my shirt backward." She motioned to the tag sticking up from the reversed collar.

I'm sure I blushed crimson, because of course, pulling off nonchalance was not part of my readily available repertoire, and brought a hand to my neck.

"No, no, other side," she winked, and then wagged her full brows at me. "Oh, never mind, both sides, maybe."

" Sam ," Dillon scolded, but again the woman—who was beginning to seem familiar—showed her her palm.

"Silence, Sinc." She looked back to me. "Sam Huntley." She stuck out her hand.

The name immediately jogged my memory. I knew her at once. I'd seen her face plastered all over the TV for years. One of England's greatest soccer players. Her accolades were endless. And then, later, I remembered her being in the news—no longer for soccer, but because a terrible motorcycle accident had ended her career.

I shook her hand.

On so many occasions Dillon had referenced her best friend, Sam. Of course it would be Sam Huntley—because, after all, she was Dillon Sinclair.

"Hi—Kameryn," I managed. "Kingsbury."

"Could have fooled me for Tonya Harding." Again, she winked. "Won't lie—I'd half believed Sinc made up the whole thing. Didn't for a minute imagine you'd settle for an ugly mug like hers. I promise you, lass—you could do so much better."

Before I could answer, she turned her attention to Dillon. "Don't think you're in the clear—I'm not done with you. But I'll leave you to it for now. Nothing worse than acting a spare tire." Taking a step to the front door, she looked back at me one last time. "You ought to come to my bash on Saturday. I promise, I could find you someone to leave with a whole lot dishier than ol' Sinc, here." She gave her friend a pointed glare. "See you then, marra." And shut the door.