Page 160 of Ruin My Life
We don’t say a word the entire ferry ride.
Not on the deck.
Not when we return to the car.
Not even as Damon steers us through the quiet little town of New Shoreham.
Everything here feels muted—slowed, softened, like the world itself is holding its breath. The further west we go, the more private it feels.
Paved roads fade into gravel and dirt. Trees thicken and stretch over the narrow path like they’re shielding something sacred. The GPS on the dash starts begging for internet, but Damon just mutes the alert without even glancing at the screen.
He doesn’t need directions.
Eventually, the forest peels back into a clearing that opens to the ocean. A small white house sits perched on a hill overlooking a rocky beach, the setting sun catching the rust-orange roof and making it glow like a smoldering fire.
It’s remote. Pristine. Untouched by anything cruel.
The chimney puffs smoke into the winter air, only to have it swept away by the wind off the water. Damon pulls the car into a patch of grass to the side of the house—the spot already worn down by tire tracks.
As soon as the engine cuts, the porch light flicks on.
A woman steps into the sunset’s glow wearing red plaid pyjamas and a thick beige sweater that looks hand-knit. Herdark hair is streaked with silver, pulled into a low ponytail. Her eyes crinkle when she sees Damon, and a smile stretches across her pale face—wide and warm andalive.
I climb out of the passenger seat just as Damon meets her at the stairs. He bends down into her embrace, letting her wrap her arms around his shoulders. Her thin hand moves across his back in slow, familiar circles. She whispers something to him, but I can’t make out the words over the crash of the waves around us.
Then her eyes land on me.
She releases Damon and steps forward.
“And who might this be?” she asks, her voice coated in kindness and curiosity.
Damon looks over his shoulder at me, then back at her with a soft half-smile.
“This is Brie,” he says.
He heads toward the trunk to grab our bags, giving me a moment to catch my breath. When he returns, he stands at my side.
“Brie, meet Rebecka King.”
King.
My breath catches.
“Your… mom?” I whisper.
He nods.
Of course. I should’ve known.
He told me he got her out when he left the Songbirds—that he’d bought her a house somewhere safe. Far enough to be hidden, close enough that he could still reach her.
He never told anyone where.
And now I’m standing on her doorstep.
The guilt that pierces me is a knife in my sternum.
I camethisclose to endangering her—hismother—because I couldn’t see past my own selfish agenda.
