Page 9 of Forever Never
Growing up, Kimber and Remi had each had rooms in the front of the house.
She pushed open the door to her childhood bedroom and sighed. They’d made changes in here. Gone were the deep purple paint and the posters of Usher, Alicia Keys, and Zac Efron. They had kept some of the art prints she’d collected, though. The colorful pieces popped off the clean, beige walls.
The bed was the same, with its wrought iron headboard, but the kaleidoscope of scarves she’d woven between the bars was missing. Ivory bed linens made the room feel tranquil instead of moody.
Remi couldn’t help but wonder if this was the version of her that her parents would have preferred. Toned down. Restful. No longer a “hurricane of color and chaos.”
She couldn’t blame them. She was well aware that Remington Honeysuckle Ford was a lot to take.
Alessandra Ballard, on the other hand, was whimsical and interesting. At least, that had been the plan. But now, standing in her old bedroom, Remi wondered exactly where outgrowing the past and ruining her future left her.
Not that she could afford to think about that yet. Not when there were more pressing matters.
She took out her phone and opened her email. Ignoring her overflowing inbox, she started a new message—slowly and painfully due to the restricted movement of her right thumb.
C,
I hope you’re okay. Please be okay. They won’t tell me anything. Please tell me you’re okay.
R
She stared at the top of her inbox for several long minutes, willing a response to appear. When one didn’t, she flopped down on the bed and stared up at the ceiling, letting thoughts and memories rise.
She was home. Home was safe. As long as no one in her other life figured out where to find her. This was where she would exorcise a few demons, heal a few broken bones, and come up with a plan to fix everything before it was too late.
God, she hoped it wasn’t already too late.
4
“Come on, Brick. I was just having a bit of fun.”
Maybe it was the measly thirty minutes of sleep he’d managed the night before. Or maybe it was the whine in Duncan Firth’s voice as they stood over the mangled frame of the Polaris after it had done battle with a split rail fence and a stop sign.
Whatever the reason, he wasn’t feeling particularly fond of fun in the moment.
“That’s Sergeant Callan to you when I’m in uniform,” Brick said, handing over the citation. “Next time you think about ramping your vehicle, try aiming it away from the fences and street signs.”
“Yes, sir,” Duncan said, morosely stuffing the ticket into the pocket of his snowsuit. The man was in his early sixties, a grandfather of three, and a bit of a daredevil. He was the first islander to test out the ice bridge that connected the island to the mainland every year. The longer winter stretched on, the dumber his decision-making got.
“Pops! Pops! Didja see the video?” Duncan’s seven-year-old grandson jogged over holding a phone over his head.
“Lemme have a look-see,” Duncan said, pulling out a pair of reading glasses.
With a shake of his head, Brick decided it was time to leave before he had to add any other charges to the citation. Knowing Duncan, there was a six-pack of beer buried somewhere in the snow nearby.
His horse, one of the few left on the island for winter, stamped an impatient hoof at the fence. Like his owner, Cleetus was quiet, dependable, and bigger than most. He stood sixteen hands high, his dark coat glossy in the Friday morning sun. Brick stashed his gear in the saddlebag and gave the horse a pat on the rump before heaving himself into the saddle. “All right. Let’s get you some breakfast, bud.”
The big, black horse tossed his head in agreement, and together they headed toward town.
It was the kind of morning that took a man’s breath away. The sun threw thousands of diamond glints off the snow, blinding in their brilliance. Meanwhile, the lake wind worked its way under layers of gear, reminding anyone who stepped out under that brilliant sun that it was still February, still a long haul to the spring temperatures of May.
Brick appreciated the rugged beauty of winter. The long, dark nights. The blanket of quiet. Work was slower, easier. The focus shifted from policing thousands of tourists to keeping an eye on the few hundred neighbors who called Mackinac home all year round.
It was peaceful.
At least it had been until yesterday.
The lights at Red Gate had stayed on all night. He knew that because he’d checked every hour or so, standing in his old bedroom at the front of the house and staring across the street at the cottage.
