Page 20 of Knot the Last Chapter

This is where it started.

The first mystery I ever wrote.

I was nine, maybe ten. I made Dad print out the pages because I was convinced handwritten stories weren’t “professional.” I even stapled them together like a real book. So many stories followed after that.

And then—him.

Jake’s classmate. Older. Bigger. Cruel in that careless way teenage boys sometimes are. Casually dismissing my work like it didn’t matter.

I didn’t cry. Not until later. But his words… they stuck. Like splinters under my skin.

For a while, I stopped writing altogether. Stopped sharing. Even when Jake tried to encourage me, I pretended I didn’t care. But deep down, I wanted one thing: To prove him wrong.

I trail my fingers over the rough edge of the mantel, feeling that old desire to see my name in print erupt to life again.

I’m going to do it. I’m going to finish my book. I won’t let anyone stop me this time.

The wind shifts again, and a low growl of thunder echoes across the valley. The storm’s rolling in faster than I expected. I glance out the window and see the water already starting to chop, the edges white-capped and angry.

The island is beautiful in the summer, but when the weather turns, it turns fast. The channel between here and the mainland isn’t wide, but in bad weather, it might as well be the open sea.

I make a mental note of the few minor repairs Jake will need to handle later. Some cracked window seals. A bit of warping in the back deck.

As I step onto the porch, my phone buzzes weakly in my pocket.

But when I pull it out, I see the dreaded message: No Service.

Of course. Storms really mess with cell service around here, especially on the islands. Another charm of this place.

I bite my lip and glance across the water toward the mainland. The wind cuts sharper as I make my way down the path to the dock, pine needles crunching underfoot. The sky overhead is already bruising, turning that strange greenish-gray that always means bad news is coming fast.

The boat rocks against the dock, bobbing anxiously like it knows what’s coming.

I untie it, steadying myself, and cast one last glance back at the cabin. My chest tightens—part nerves, part nostalgia, part adrenaline from the weather and the memories that feel closer than they’ve been in years.

Go now, Lila.

The first fat drops of rain hit my shoulders as I push off from the dock and angle the boat toward home.

The water’s choppier than I like. Spray slaps my face, wind tugging at my hair as I lean into the motor, keeping my eyes locked on the shoreline ahead.

I’m almost there. Almost home.

I just have to outrun this storm first.

Chapter twelve

Tyler (Pine)

The storm’s rolling in heavy.

The sky’s gone that strange, metallic gray that means trouble. The wind’s sharp enough to carry pine needles sideways, and thunder’s rumbling low over the lake like a warning that hasn’t decided how serious it wants to be yet.

It matches the weight sitting on my chest.

I roll another layer of stain onto the front porch railing of the old house—our house, technically—though nobody’s called it that in years. The family property. The old Carver mansion. Rhys calls it my next project, but we both know that’s just his way of checking in without actually saying he’s checking in.

I don’t mind. Not really.

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