I’d survived.
I’d nurtured two small humans. I’d healed a fully grown man. I’d proven my self-worth over and over again.
And I had no one else to blame but myself for not having Galloway.
What am I doing?
Shooting to my feet, I waded into the water, welcoming the warm liquid to lap around my calves.
The sea was abnormally low tonight. We’d all become rather indebted to the tide. It washed away our dreams, our fears, our wishes. Every message we wrote in the sand was soothed by the briny waves.
Kicking the water, droplets rained around me. Back in society, I’d lost the ability to feel pride of accomplishment and beauty in small things, brushing them under a rug of indifference and the endless desire for more. More wealth, more safety, more friends, more love, more, more, more.
But here...our world was simplified. We no longer had to compete with one another; we survived because we fought side by side. We no longer felt envious of another’s happiness because day after day, we garnered joy for staying alive in a hostile world.
The simple pleasures of feeling sand through my fingers or seeing rainbows in droplets had made me full again. The muse for my song writing had become a vicious mistress, driving me to find inspiration in the randomest of places.
Looking toward the camp, something caught my eye. Indents in the sand, lettering scratched by a twig, just waiting for the sea to wash its secretive confession away.
I frowned.
That’s strange.
Pip and Conner hadn’t wanted to do the messages tonight, opting instead for a large bonfire to commiserate the number of months we’d been here. The calendar on my phone helped us keep track, but it also kept us very aware of how long it had been.
If they didn’t write them, then who...
Wading out of the water, I drifted closer.
The honest scrawl slipped down my throat and yanked my stomach from its home.
I’m hurting. I’m angry. I want the memories of what I did to leave me alone. I want to be a good person again. I want her so fucking much. I want to taste and touch. I want to lick and stroke. I want to be off this goddamn island so I might stand one chance with her.
I hugged myself as my heart lost its flying feathers and plummeted.
I’d done this.
I’d hurt him.
Over and over again.
The tide wasn’t close to wiping away the words or the passion dripping from them.
Sucking in a breath, my nipples tingled at the ferocious need permeating the penmanship.
Galloway wanted me.
I had the power to make him happy. I could help him forget whatever he’d done.
This was no longer about me.
It was about him.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
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G A L L O W A Y
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FIVE YEARS BEFORE THE CRASH
“I, GALLOWAY JACOB Oak, swear that the evidence I shall give will be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God.”
My hand shook as the defence attorney removed the bible from my reach, sneering with disdain. He’d already judged, condemned, and ruined me.
I was screwed.
My eyes flickered to the jury where the faces of all ages, ethnicities, and religions stared back. Each one held a key to my freedom, but not one of them would give it to me.
And why should they?
I didn’t deserve it.
Not in the eyes of the court anyway.
In the eyes of my mother...well, I knew she would’ve been grateful if not sad for what I’d become.
The attorney paced like a jackal in front of my witness box, linking his fingers pompously. “Now, Mr. Oak. Answer clearly and precisely for the court so there is no misunderstanding. Did you or did you not kill Doctor Joseph Silverstein?”
I glanced at my father. I straightened my shoulders. I prepared to throw my life away.
Not that I had a life left.
I was a murderer.
“Yes. Yes, I killed him.”
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BLOODY NERVES DROVE me mad as I waited for the others to join me.
I’d had four days to perfect our home on my own. Even Conner hadn’t been permitted around the camp while I finished it. He’d been as integral to the creation as I had, but I wanted the final touches to be special for him, too.
Hence the banning.
I stood by the fire, critiquing the building we’d created from flax rope, bamboo, and helicopter rotor blades. It wasn’t fancy, but it was fairly large and substantial enough to withstand a storm or two, but not a typhoon if one of those decided to make our life even more hellish.
It’ll leak.
I scowled. That part was unavoidable. The roof was flax fronds layered tightly together and the open holes for windows merely had a woven mat secured to the wall to roll down. It was the best I could do without waterproof tiles or glass.
I heard them before I saw them.
I crossed my arms and waited as Pippa’s giggle and Conner’s voice drifted around the bay.
Last week, Conner’s voice had dropped a few octaves, leaving behind boyhood for puberty.