Page 285 of Let Me In

From the safety of the harbor’s edge, I watch her go.

The yacht.

The empire.

Every name and secret and strand of power Lucian ever spun.

It floats farther out, slow and solemn, like a funeral procession with no mourners.

And then—I press the trigger, and look up as I let the detonator go, sink to he bottom of the ocean.

The horizon blooms orange in a soft flash. A roar follows, low and distant, barely brushing the shore before the sea swallows it whole. The flames climb fast, lick the sky—then vanish.

Not even embers left behind.

No one sees it. No one traces it. Except the water—cool, still, heavy with silence. It vanishes like a shadow never cast.

And me, surfacing from the black beneath like I was never here at all. No shadow left behind. Just the echo of her name in my chest, steady and low, guiding me back.

I swim back the way I came—beneath the dark, where no light finds me. Where no name has power. Where the fire is only a memory now, sinking with the wreckage.

When I reach the rocks, I pull myself up slow.

Body cold, but clean.

I strip off the suit behind the tree line, bury the gloves and gear in the sand. Everything else can rot. Then I tug on the clothes I left in the dry bag: dark jeans, grey thermal, her flannel.

Mine now, because she gave it back folded, like it meant something. It does.

I tuck the compass into my front pocket and breathe.

It’s quiet here. No sirens. No boats. No echoes of what just burned past the horizon. Just gulls in the dark and home calling through the stillness.

I walk barefoot up the gravel pull-off, slide into the driver’s seat, and start the truck.

She doesn’t know yet—not officially. But I can feel her. I can feel the thread of her worry pulled so tight it’s humming.

I take out my phone. Thumb hovers for a second.

It’s done.

I’m safe.

Coming home.

I don’t wait for a reply.

The road opens in front of me like a promise.

And I drive.

36

EMMY

I don’t sleep.

I try—once.

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