Scene 51

The soundscape of the tranquil Polynesian coast faded as the buzz of a motorboat engine grew louder.

I groaned, trying to block out the noise. The breeze was so fresh, the warmth of Dillon's body beside me so comforting. I wasn't ready to wake up. I pressed my face into the nape of her neck, inhaling her essence. Wanting to live in the peacefulness of it forever.

But the buzz grew louder. What was a motorboat doing so close to the shore? Or was it the hymn of the island cicadas?

I was no longer sure.

Reluctant, I pried open an eye. It was dark. The birdsong vanished, taking with it the rustle of palm trees and distant hum of music from the resort. I wasn't on a tropical island. Dillon wasn't lying alongside me in the warm white sands of Tetiaroa.

I was home—whatever that word meant—lying on the chaise lounge of my balcony, and it was the middle of the night. I rummaged for my phone to check the time and realized it was still sitting on the kitchen counter. The vibration against the tiles had woken me.

Stumbling over an empty bottle of wine, I lunged to my feet, quickly forced to steady myself against the glass door as dizziness threatened to upheave my equilibrium. I couldn't believe I'd fallen asleep. It had to be late. Judging by the moon in the cloudless sky, I imagined it was at least two—I dragged myself to the kitchen, swiping up my phone— three in the morning. 3:19 to be exact.

The race would have been over for more than an hour.

I hadn't been able to bring myself to watch. My heart couldn't take it. She'd told me she felt strong enough—healthy enough—she felt she had a shot to win it. Even her coach, Alistair, had echoed the sentiment.

"Sinc's fitness is on par with her pre-injury results. I expect her to put in a strong standing," he said in an interview earlier in the week.

So instead of tearing my hair out, agonizing over her every footfall, analyzing her every grimace, I washed down a Xanax with a bottle of Chateau Margaux (Hollywood had stamped its firm imprint on me) and took sentry on my balcony to channel all my positive energy to the north of England.

That had been more than three hours ago.

God damn it .

Without allowing myself to look at the notifications on my screen, I staggered through the dark back to my balcony. Whatever the results, I wanted the salty sea air, the ocean of stars, the unfettering pull of the tide to surround me.

Part of my consciousness was still lingering in the tropical buoyancy of my dream. In the way I'd felt Dillon's presence. Warm. Soothing.

It was a good omen, surely.

Settled at the glass railing, with one final plea to the moon to let the results be what she—what we —needed, I swiped open my screen.

Seven missed calls . Not one of them from Dillon. My heart plummeted.

Fuck .

12:03: Seren Sinclair

12:17: Sam Huntley

12:25: Sam Huntley

12:37: Seren Sinclair

01:01: Jacqueline Sinclair

02:21: Kyle Wood

03:17: Seren Sinclair

Four voicemails.

One text.

I felt sick.

I tapped the text. It was from Sam.

Call me ASAP!

My fingers were shaking as I thumbed to my inbox. The first voicemail was from Seren.

Hi Kam, I'm sorry it's so late. It's Seren. Have you talked to Dillon? Her start is in twelve minutes and no one can find her. Please call me.

The next message was from Sam.

Howay, Kam—it's Hunt. Sinc's missed her start. Ring me back, like. Ta!"

Then Jacqueline.

Hello Kameryn, it's Jacqueline Sinclair. I was hoping you might have talked to Dillon. Will you please call me or Seren when you get this? Thank you.

The last message was Seren again.

I'm sorry to keep calling, Kam, but we can't find my sister. Her mobile has been shut off. She didn't scratch and she didn't start. Please call me.

My legs felt weak as I hung my elbows over the railing to support myself.

She didn't scratch and she didn't start …

It made no sense. She'd never not start. There was some miscommunication. She wouldn't walk away. That simply wasn't her. She didn't back down from anything.

They had to have found her by now.

I checked the time of Seren's last call. Just a few minutes ago…

A wave of nausea made it difficult to breathe. Difficult to speak when Seren answered my call.

"Kam—?"

"Have you found her?"

Seren's sigh was long, deflated. "You haven't spoken to her, then?"

"No. Not since before the race. She texted me…" I pulled the phone away from my ear to open my messages, unable to recall exactly what she'd said. I read it again.

I'm sorry. I love you.

Had she meant something different? Had I misinterpreted the context?

"Kam?" Seren queried in my silence.

I stared at the words, reading them over and over.

I thought she meant about the day before… About our fight on the phone…

"Kam—"

"I have to call you back." I abruptly hung up, my voice tasting like bile.

This was all just a misunderstanding. There was an explanation, I was certain of it.

I tried to take a deep breath, but my lungs reviled against the bitterness of the salt in the breeze, the sound of the gentle breakers deafening in my nightmare.

Because that was what this was—a nightmare—nothing more. I was going to wake up. I was going to find I'd simply had too much to drink. I would open my eyes back on the beaches of Tetiaroa.

I stood for what felt like an eternity, knowing none of that was true. Knowing I had to pull myself together.

I finally looked at my phone. It was only 3:33.

I opened favorites and selected the first contact, input playfully as DFS. A photo of her popped up, sunburnt and covered in sand, which I'd told her I found ‘exceptionally hot' at the time I took it.

The light of the moon dimmed as it slipped behind a newly formed cloud, the call going directly to voicemail.

You've reached Sinc. You know what to do. Hang up. Text. Don't call. Cheers!

I still called nineteen times in a row, swearing each time she'd pick up if I just tried once more. I listened to the voicemail every time, hanging up before the beep. Finally, on the twentieth redial, I left a message.

"Dillon. I know you're going to get this. As soon as you do, please call me." I hung up. Then dialed straight back. "P.S. I love you." My voice wavered, my breathing staggered. "I really, really, really love you. Please call me."

All the warmth had left my hands, and it took a half dozen stabs from my index finger to end the call.

I watched the screen turn black and wanted to chuck it over the balcony.

But I couldn't.

She would call. She'd promised. She wouldn't do this to me.

Overcome with a wave of despair, I slipped down the misted glass of the railing, and sat cross-legged on the cold tile, staring at nothing.