Sand and Scars

Riley hadn't planned to sleep, but morning found her draped across the old sofa at the Chateau, her fingers curled around JJ's letter like it might vanish if she let go. The ceiling fan creaked overhead, slicing the humid air with each lazy rotation, while light bled in through the blinds—soft, golden, unforgiving. Sleep had come in fragments, tugging her between memory and guilt, until exhaustion stole her resistance.

The scent of burning batter hit her nose.

Pancakes.

Burnt ones.

She sat up groggily and followed the noise into the kitchen, where JJ stood half-dressed and overly enthusiastic, flipping questionable breakfast food in a scratched pan.

"You're awake!" he grinned.

"You're cooking?" Riley blinked.

"I'm healing. Starts with carbs."

She eyed the smoke. "Starts with a fire hazard, apparently."

He shrugged. "Don't knock my culinary therapy."

They ate in mismatched silence—forks scraping plates, syrup drowning structural failures. But it felt real, raw in the kind of way Veilstone never was. JJ had always measured love in acts of defiance, and this—pancakes for a sister he'd barely dared to miss—felt like rebellion against every ghost between them.

Later, the Pogues gathered at the beach. Kie showed up with citrus drinks in recycled mason jars, a nod to summer rituals long buried. Pope asked quiet questions about Veilstone—curious about corruption behind manicured lawns. John B lingered on the edges, his glances toward Julianna unreadable.

Riley sat in the sand, the ocean stretching endless in front of her, and the weight of everything behind her pressing down.

"You remember that summer?" JJ asked, pulling his hoodie tight.

"The one before I left?"

He nodded.

"I remember Dad spiraling. I remember you punching a mailbox out of rage," she said, her voice tinged with sardonic affection. "I remember counting the days until I was gone."

JJ didn't flinch. "I remember watching you leave and wondering if I'd ever learn how to breathe without you here."

Riley didn't answer, just reached out and squeezed his hand. Some things didn't need words.

As dusk settled, they split—Pope heading home, Kie drifting off with a wistful wave, and John B exchanging tense glances with Julianna before muttering something about picking up more beer. Riley caught the way Julianna's eyes followed him.

"You should talk to him," Riley offered.

"Eventually," Julianna replied. "But right now, I'm more worried about you."

When Riley returned to her room that evening, she pulled out every journal from under her bed—dozens of notebooks filled with fragments of poetry, maps of escape routes, names she wanted to forget. At the bottom was a note she hadn't seen before, creased and stained with time.

> You think you escaped, but the tide always returns what we try to drown.

Her breath hitched. The handwriting wasn't JJ's.

She called Julianna immediately.

"You found it," Julianna said, her voice tight.

"You knew?"

"I thought I burned them."

Riley swallowed hard. "Them?"

"There were three."

"What do they mean?"

"Someone wants you shaken," Julianna said. "And if I'm right... they won't stop with notes."

Fear prickled at the base of Riley's spine.

Later that night, Riley headed to the marsh—the place she and JJ used to escape to as kids. The dock was half-rotted, the reeds taller than she remembered, but the quiet was the same. There, she found Kie sitting at the edge, skimming stones across the glassy surface.

"You okay?" Kie asked.

"No," Riley admitted. "But I'm trying."

Kie smiled, not surprised. "That's more honest than most people get."

They sat in silence until Riley asked, "Do you think we ever stop paying for the secrets we keep?"

Kie's response was slow. "No. I think they just change currency."

When Riley got back, tension pulsed through the Chateau. JJ was arguing with Pope and John B about something—money, risk, loyalty. Riley leaned in the doorway, watching the fire build.

"You're doing it again," she said softly.

JJ paused. "Doing what?"

"Burning bridges before you even cross them."

Silence.

"You don't trust me," he said.

"I do," Riley replied. "But I think you stopped trusting yourself a long time ago."

The next morning, Riley found Julianna seated on the porch, knees hugged to her chest, face unusually pale. She passed Riley a small envelope.

Inside was a photo—blurry, grainy, but unmistakable. Riley and Julianna, freshman year. The prank that got hushed. The faculty scandal they exposed without realizing who they'd crossed.

Riley's stomach sank. "This was supposed to be gone."

"I locked it away," Julianna whispered. "I thought if I left, it would stay buried."

"You didn't bury it deep enough."

They stared at the image, the threat it carried.

"We need to tell them," Julianna said. "All of them."

"You trust the Pogues with this?"

Julianna met her eyes. "They'd burn Veilstone to the ground for us."

That night, Riley gathered them all. JJ, John B, Pope, Kie, even Sarah showed up when she got the message. Together, Riley and Julianna told the story—every humiliating, brave, stupid detail. The prank, the fallout, the silence.

The group listened.

JJ was the first to speak. "So someone's threatening you because you had the guts to call out corruption?"

Riley nodded. "That's the simplified version."

"Then we go loud," JJ said. "We protect our own."

John B hesitated. "Are we dragging Veilstone into OBX territory?"

"It already crawled in," Julianna said. "We either push back, or we let it rot everything from the inside out."

Kie stood. "Then we push."

In the quiet after, Riley looked around the room and felt it—strength forged in bruises and loyalty. They were messy and broken, but they were hers.

She stepped onto the porch later, alone, letting the night settle around her. The tide was high, waves slapping the shore with rhythmic fury. Secrets didn't sleep—not here, not ever.

But maybe, just maybe, she wasn't running anymore.