Scene 52 Take 2

The tide was rising.

Dillon hesitated on the landing of the staircase.

Just one foot, and then the other. One hundred eighty-three stairs to climb. She knew the way. And she knew the decision that awaited her at the top.

But the first step felt so daunting.

Two hundred feet above her, a Herring gull sang its guttural song as it circled the lighthouse. She watched the bird, temporarily transfixed as the pounding in her heart accelerated. It was now or never. Behind her, the foreshore to Mumbles Head was disappearing, and soon, a return trek to the mainland would be impossible.

Which was what she wanted.

Wasn't it?

She had felt so certain, wading through the water. Ever since walking out of Roundhay Park , she'd known what she had to do.

But now that she was here, she felt her conviction falter.

She snapped her eyes away from the bird. Nothing had changed. She just needed a minute to catch her breath—to find her bearing.

Her thoughts seemed so disjointed.

Careless of the burgeoning current, she dropped to sit on the landing.

A crab skittered across the first stone step, before vanishing into a crevice. She didn't allow herself to think about Kam, about the way she'd stop to point out the crustacean. How she'd know its scientific name, and ramble off a list of facts, a testament to her love of all things aquatic.

No, she couldn't think about that now. The time for that had passed.

Drawing her knees to her chest, she tried to slow her breathing.

Her life was over.

Henrik had been right. She was nothing but a coward. A coward who ran away from everything.

Across the narrow strait, the Mumbles Pier glistered in the sunlight. She scanned the quiet jetty to where a pair of silhouettes stood, their fishing rods cast over the railing: a man and a child. How many afternoons had she and her dad stood on that same platform? It was where he'd taught her to tie a clinch knot, to bait a hook, to reel in a lurking flounder.

Her gaze trailed to her thumb, where she still had a fine white scar from mishandling a knife while prying open the shell of a blue mussel.

"Bydd gryf!" her dad had gently reprimanded when the crimson well of blood had threatened to spring a gush of tears. "A dragon does not cry."

Bydd gryf —be strong.

So many times she'd repeated the phrase, his voice an echo in her mind.

At the start of a race. In the last steps before the finish line. On long, exhausting training rides .

And today she had failed him.

She squeezed her eyes closed, trying to shut out the carousel of voices. Her father. Henrik. Kam. Seren.

Ddraig Fach.

Drückeberger.

You can't think about anyone but yourself.

You promised me, Dillon!

Desperate for silence, she slammed her fist against the jagged stone of the landing, sending a blaze of pain up her forearm, the white heat startling her, dragging her back to reality.

Everything that had seemed so clear before no longer felt certain.

She stared at the blood dripping down her knuckles.

How could one moment of weakness truly discount a lifetime of courage?

It wasn't fair. And it wasn't true.

Somewhere, a voice of rationale—a voice of reason—begged to be heard, fighting to reassure her: she wasn't a coward. She'd given everything she had. Over and over.

Forcing herself to her feet, her bounding pulse returned. Water was washing over the landing, the rock pools at the base of the island beginning to overflow. She had to act, one way or the other—up the stairs or return to the safety of the shore.

On the pier, she could see the fisherman's rod bending, his line taut with tension. The child beside him was jumping up and down in anticipation.

Dillon turned away. Her heart felt like it was going to beat out of her chest. Above her, the gull cried again, still circling. She took one step up the staircase, glancing at the lighthouse, and then looked back to the mainland.

Her father had once told her the flood tide was unswimmable.

But he'd been gone so long, he'd never really had a chance to know her.

She turned—away from the lighthouse, away from the stairs—and dove headfirst into the water.

The brass knob turned reluctantly as the door creaked open, twelve years of dust weighing on its hinges.

Dillon froze. The room was musty: salt, brine, and wood rot hanging thick in the air. And somewhere beneath it, the subtle scent of cologne—an aroma she'd almost forgotten. Her skin pricked with gooseflesh underneath her sea-soaked clothing.

She took a breath. It was time to face this.

For the first time in more than half her life, she stepped across the threshold of her father's study.

It was smaller than she remembered it. The rosewood desk seemed less majestic, the wall of books less imposing. But it was otherwise unchanged. The evening of his funeral, her mam had closed the door, and the room was never mentioned between the three Sinclairs again. A well-preserved time capsule oblivious to the life that had continued on around it.

Her damp trainers left a trail of footprints as she slowly took inventory of the once-familiar surroundings. There was the antique turntable beside the radiator and his Beaufort jacket hanging on the wall. She stopped in front of an end table. A weathered copy of Theory of Elasticity lay open, his glasses propped between the pages, marking a passage that no longer mattered.

Closing the book, she ran her fingers along the broken spine, before crossing the room to his wingback chair. The scent of his cologne was strongest here. She could still see the indent of his elbow on the leather of the armrest. It was the same chair where he'd been sitting when, at four years old, she burst into his study to show him she'd learned how to whistle. Despite his maze of blueprints and ongoing business call, he'd tugged her onto his lap and listened with pride to the shrill, breathy warble. All these years later, and she could still feel the scratch of his five o'clock whiskers, and hear the smile in his voice as he told her he'd never been prouder.

There was nothing she wouldn't give to hear those words again.

Setting the memory aside, she leaned over his desk, pausing to look at a faded calendar. Beneath a layer of dust, the final month of his life was frozen in time.

Her breath hitched.

July, the 27 th was circled in red, the word DILLON written in capital letters.

Unsteady, she sank into the empty chair to keep her knees from buckling. He'd marked the day of her Olympic debut, twelve years earlier.

For a long time, she sat in silence and stared at her dad's handwriting, before eventually allowing her gaze to drift to the shadows of the open beams in the ceiling.

She didn't know how he had done it, putting their mam through that. Did he know she'd be the one to find him?

Or, had he ever considered Seren would feel obligated to move back home, that she'd spend her life trying to fill the hole he'd left in their family?

The tightness in her chest shifted, her sorrow disintegrating to anger.

And what about her ? Had he realized the effect his death would have on her? The darkness that would follow?

Lunging to her feet, she swept the calendar to the floor, suddenly finding the emptiness of the room suffocating. She threw open a long-rusted window.

Along the shore, the moored sailboats bobbed in the high tide, their masts reflecting the late afternoon sun as it slipped toward the horizon.

She closed her eyes, allowing the fresh air to fan her burning cheeks and listened to the waves break against the headland.

Her resentment was misplaced. She knew she couldn't blame him.

Because, deep down, she understood. His hurt. His need to escape it.

But she also knew what it was like to be the one left behind, to carry that guilt on her shoulders.

It wasn't something she could do to the people she loved—to the people who loved her.

The coastal breeze stirred the long-stationary curtains, unearthing a paper trapped beneath them. Dillon bent to retrieve it. Flattening out the folds, a recumbent ray of sunlight illuminated its yellowing creases.

It was a photo of her above a faded headline: Olympic Dream: Swansea Star Dillon Sinclair Makes History as Team GB's Youngest Triathlete .

The paper was brittle, the small columns of text no longer legible, but the image remained clear. She was nineteen years old, standing on the podium in Bermuda. She'd outraced an entire field of seasoned competitors to earn her place as a rookie at the upcoming London Games.

Dillon slid to the floor. She thought about the letter her father wrote her, how he had been so proud. He must have clipped the article from his daily paper.

And a week later, they buried him.

Tears she didn't bother to wipe away dripped off her chin.

She studied the grainy image. The girl on the podium was smiling, her hair drenched with champagne, but there was a joylessness in her expression.

She'd expected to find the selfish woman who'd caused her father's death. A woman who'd put her own ambitions above everything else.

But all she saw was a child.

A child who'd been manipulated.

A child who'd been controlled.

And a child who'd assumed a burden that wasn't entirely hers.

She crumpled the article, allowing the fragments to slip through her fingers.

She wasn't that child anymore.

She'd spent a lifetime trying to atone for her mistakes, always chasing resolutions to an outcome that couldn't be changed. There was no record she could break to show him how sorry she was. No medal she could win that would ever bring him back.

And it was time to let it go.

Her dad had taught her to be strong. Henrik taught her to be ruthless. But no one ever taught her the value of knowing when to walk away.

That quitting wasn't always weakness.

She leaned against the wall. A weariness washed over her, brought on by the setting sun. She couldn't remember the last time she'd ever felt this tired. But with the fatigue also came a sense of relief. A feeling of closure.

She didn't know what she'd do next, but for the first time in longer than she could remember, she felt like things might be okay, like she could start to see a future.

The light shifted over the windowsill. It was late.

She pulled out her phone. She needed to text Seren.

But first, there was another promise she had to keep.

Staring at the lovespoon on her father's mantel—one he had once carved for their mam—she hit the first number in her contacts.

She drew a deep breath.

The call was answered on the first ring.

Exhaling, she closed her eyes.

"Hey, Kam."