Page 138 of Broken Trails
Neither of them answers me, so I step forward, and my heart sinks when I notice the flash of orange fur inside, followed by a familiar meow and then the hiss that confirms it.Sprinkles.
My eyes snap back to them. “She… left?”
“Michael—” Imogen starts as she steps toward me.
“Did she fucking leave?”
Joseph’s little gasp cuts through the air. “Uh, oh. Uncle Mikey said bad word!”
Imogen’s eyes flick to me. “Sit down, let’s talk about it.”
“What’s there to talk about? Just answer my question, Midge. Yes or no?”
Harrison steps in, scooping Joseph into his arms. “Alright, bud, let’s go get those pancakes ready.”
“P’cakes! Yummy!” Joseph cheers as Harrison carries him into the kitchen, the sound of their voices fading until it’s just me, Imogen, and the carrier on the table. My brows are pulled tight, a hard, unyielding line across my forehead as I follow her out the back door into the yard. I stop near the old timber table, waiting, my chest wound tight.
“What is this?” I ask finally, motioning to the carrier. My voice is clipped. “What is Sprinkles doing here, Imogen?”
She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. Her lips press together, and she swallows, eyes holding something I don’t want to name.
“I asked you a question,” I snap.
Her own brows lift. “Hey! Watch your tone with me.”
I force my teeth together and swallow, nodding once. “Fine. Just tell me.”
“She’s not—she just… needed time,” she says carefully. “She went back to Sydney.”
My stomach drops like a stone, and I take a step toward her. “What do you mean she went back?”
“She had to,” Imogen says, like it’s the most reasonable thing in the world. “There’s stuff she needed to fix. With Liam. With everything.”
My voice comes out through gritted teeth. “So she’s going back to that piece of shit?”
“Yes,” she says quickly, “but not in the way you think, Michael—”
“Oh, really? Then why does it look exactly like what I think?”
“Because she’s not running back into his arms,” Imogen snaps. “She’s tying up loose ends, trying to close doors she should’ve slammed a long time ago.”
I let out a short, humourless laugh. “And she couldn’t tell me that herself?”
“She thought it would be easier if she left clean. No arguments, no one talking her out of it.”
“I didn’t think she’d leave like this,” I say, shaking my head. “No call. No message. She just fucking vanished.”
Imogen glances toward the back door. “She asked me not to say anything until she was gone.”
“After last night?” I ask—more to myself than anything—my voice rising. “After everything?”
“She didn’t want to hurt you.”
“Well, too fucking late for that, isn’t it?”
The sound of Joseph’s feet pattering inside cuts through the air, his voice calling out about pancakes again, but Imogen doesn’t break eye contact.
“She left a note,” she says.
