I do not sleep that night.
The lilies in my room swell and turn sour with every hour, their sweet rot climbing into my throat. I lie in the dark and watch the door, counting the tiny shadows that move under the crack whenever someone passes in the hallway. Part of me waits for a key in the lock, a nurse’s voice, a brisk announcement that there’s been an incident, Hannah, for your own safety…
By the time gray light leaks in around the curtains, my body hums with a cold, steady decision. If I stay here, I become whatever they write down about me.
I shower, dress, and sit on the edge of the bed with my phone in my hand until I hear Daniel’s footsteps coming down the hall. He knocks, soft, like he did the night he proposed, when the worst thing either of us could imagine was a seating-chart mishap at our wedding.
“Yeah,” I say. My voice comes out thin.
He steps in, hair rumpled, shirt from last night wrinkled at the collar. He smells like stale smoke and the hotel soap his parents stock for guests, too clean on top of too much.
“Hey,” he says, closing the door behind him. “You didn’t come back down after… everything.”
Everything. The bracelet. The open bag. His question.
“No,” I answer. My fingers knot together in my lap. “I couldn’t.”
He stands a few feet away, undecided about whether he’s welcome on the bed. That hesitance, that inch of space, hurts more than the night before.
“We were all stressed,” he says. “You were stressed. Mom was—”
“Daniel.” I cut in before he can polish her motives. “I need to get out of here for a few days.”
His head jerks up. “Out of the house?”
“Out of Harbor Glen,” I say. “Out of the peninsula. Away from the hospital on the hill and the donor walls and your mother’s… concern.”
His throat works. “Where would you go?”
I inhale, pulling the lie up from somewhere that still remembers safety.
“My mom,” I say. “I need to be with her. Just for a bit. I need space that isn’t monitored or narrated.”
His brows draw together. “My mom doesn’t monitor you.”
I give him a look.
He sags a little. “Okay. She monitors everybody. It’s how she…” He trails off, searching for a positive word and finding none. “Still. Running away doesn’t solve anything.”
“This isn’t running,” I say. “This is not waiting until your mother convinces some court-appointed stranger that I’m too unstable to make my own decisions. I saw your face last night, Daniel. You asked me if I took that bracelet.”
His shoulders hunch, shame flashing over his features.
“I never said I believed it,” he mutters.
“You didn’t have to,” I say. “You’re not ready to choose yet. That’s fine. I get it. But I can’t sit here while she builds a case file on me one concerned comment at a time.”
He takes a small step closer.
“If you go,” he asks, “are you coming back?”
The question knocks something loose in my chest. I reach out and catch his hand.
“I don’t know,” I say, because anything else would be charity or cowardice. “But I am not leaving you. I am leaving her. There’s a difference.”
He squeezes my fingers too tight, like he wants to keep me here by circulation alone.
“Let me at least have Mark drive you,” he says. “The roads—”
“No drivers,” I cut in. “No Mercer staff. No company car with the crest on the side. I’ll take a rideshare. People do it every day.”
His mouth tightens. “You’re my wife,” he says. “You don’t have to pretend you’re—”
“Normal?” I ask softly. “I like normal. I miss normal. Remember normal?”
A flicker of a smile ghosts over his mouth and vanishes.
“My mom’s going to freak out,” he says. “You know that.”
“Your mom will freak out less than she would over a police report,” I answer. “I text her that I’m going to see my mother. I text my actual mother that I might be offline for a while. Everyone gets just enough truth to feel in control.”
He studies my face.
“Is this about that cabinet you mentioned?” he asks quietly. “The one you wouldn’t tell me about?”
My heartbeat trips. I keep my expression steady.
“This is about a lot of things,” I say. “But yes. It’s about a house where jewelry walks, where rugs slip, where therapists show up on short notice with pre-written narratives.”
His jaw works.
“Okay,” he says finally. “Go. Take a break. Talk to your mom. I’ll talk to mine.”
The idea of him “talking to” Evelyn chills me, but I nod anyway.
“Thank you,” I say.
He leans in and kisses my forehead. His lips feel hot against my skin, lingering a second longer than usual, like he’s memorizing the shape of my bones.
“Call me when you get there,” he says. “Please.”
“I will,” I lie.
When he leaves, I count to sixty under my breath before moving. Then I move fast.
I pull out my small duffel instead of the expensive luggage Evelyn gave us as a wedding present. I pack only what I can carry without slowing down: jeans, sweaters, underwear, my toothbrush, the cheap moisturizer my mother swears by. My laptop goes in first, followed by the portable drive with backups of every file I photographed in the cabinet.
I slip the printed police report about the boating accident into a slim folder, then tuck it between T-shirts. The weight of paper in the bag steadies me.
My phone buzzes. A text from my mother: How are things on the fancy cliff this morning? I stare at the screen and type with trembling thumbs.
Taking a few days away from the house to clear my head, I write. I might be off-grid. Don’t worry if I’m slow to respond.
She replies with three rapid messages: Are you safe?? Is Daniel with you?? Call me!!
I swallow hard and send back, I’m safe. I’ll call when I can. Love you.
I do not answer the second question.
On my other phone—the one Riley helped me set up with an encrypted app—I send a different message.
Need to leave Mercer house today, I type. Can you meet me in town?
The dots appear almost immediately.
Name the spot, she replies.
I picture the busy main street, the coffee shop thick with gossip and Mercer loyalties, the docks where I first met her under cover of night. None of those feel clean.
Motel near the highway, I type instead. Somewhere off the peninsula. I’ll text when I land.
I sling the bag over my shoulder, grab my coat, and head downstairs.
The house smells like coffee and bacon, the comforting hotel-breakfast scent soured by my knowledge of the cameras watching every corner. Staff move silently between the dining room and the kitchen, eyes down, faces peaceful.
I step into the doorway. Evelyn sits at the head of the table, her tablet propped up next to her plate, scrolling through something with a faint smile. Probably another glowing article about the hospital’s generosity, about the Mercer Foundation’s work with “at-risk families.”
“Good morning,” I say.
She looks up, eyes widening in a perfect expression of surprise and warmth.
“Hannah,” she says. “Join us. I had the kitchen make that French toast you like.”
“I’m leaving,” I say. My hands clamp tighter on the duffel strap so they don’t shake. “Just for a few days. I need to see my mother.”
Her gaze flicks to the bag, then to my face.
“Oh,” she says. “Is everything all right?”
“I need some space,” I answer. “That’s all.”
Her smile turns sympathetic, concern shaded in at the edges.
“Well, of course,” she says. “You’ve been under a lot of strain. These… misunderstandings.” She gestures vaguely, as though the memory of her bracelet in my bag is a smudge of jam on a napkin. “Do you want Mark to drive you?”
“No, thank you,” I say. “I already ordered a car. I’ll text Daniel when I get there.”
That gets her attention. A rideshare is a variable she does not control.
“Hannah, darling, the roads can be treacherous this time of year,” she says. “Black ice, distracted drivers. You know that.”
I meet her eyes.
“I remember,” I say. “I’ll be careful.”
For a heartbeat, we just look at each other across the table. Her hand rests on her tablet, fingers curved, nails immaculate. The Mercer crest gleams in silver on the coffee pot between us, that abstract wave pattern swallowing everything it touches.
“Call me when you arrive,” she says finally. “I worry.”
“I know,” I say. “That’s what I’m counting on.”
I turn and walk out before she can answer.
Outside, the air bites my face, sharp with salt and woodsmoke from the kitchen’s chimney. The Sound booms quietly against the cliffs below, invisible from the driveway but always there, grinding away at the rock like truth against a carefully built story.
My rideshare pulls up just beyond the gate: a battered blue sedan with a pine-tree air freshener dangling from the mirror. The Mercer driver usually parks inside the stone pillars. This car waits outside, on town ground.
The app flashes the driver’s name and photo. I check the license plate twice, then haul my bag to the back door.
“Hannah?” the driver asks when I open it.
“Yeah,” I say, sliding in. The seat smells like old french fries and citrus cleaner, an oddly reassuring combination. “That’s me.”
The gates swing open behind us with a soft hydraulic sigh. As we roll down the long drive, I watch the house through the rear window. The glass walls catch the gray morning light, reflecting the water that lies in front of it, not the wife walking away.
“Heading to Harbor Glen?” the driver asks, glancing at me in the mirror. “Or further?”
“The motel off Route Seven,” I say. “Past town.”
He nods. We curve down the hill, past the turnoff that leads to the manicured town center and its boutiques. He takes a narrower back road instead, one the locals use to bypass the country club traffic. Trees crowd close on both sides, their bare branches scratching at the overcast sky.
The air through the vents carries a faint tang of hospital disinfectant when we pass the hill where Harbor Glen Memorial rises, all glass and chrome. From this angle, I can just make out the Mercer Foundation Wing, the donor plaques glinting on the facade. Ambulances idle near the entrance, engines humming, ready to carry lives in and out of the Mercer story.
My phone buzzes against my thigh. I pull it out and press it flat in my palm, the copied files just a few touches away. Surveillance notes. Trust documents. Risk assessments for “problematic” exes. Riley’s face clipped to a printout with THREAT in the subject line.
The Mercers save lives there, I think, watching the hospital recede. And they steal them.
“You all right back there?” the driver asks, catching my pale reflection in his mirror.
“Yeah,” I say. “Just car sick.”
He cracks a window. Cold air rushes in, carrying the smell of wet earth and distant salt. It anchors me against the roll in my stomach.
By the time we reach the motel—a two-story strip of faded doors and flickering ice machine—the light has gone flat and tired. A diner crouches nearby, its sign promising pancakes and bottomless coffee. The motel’s office smells like burnt coffee and lemon cleaner; the clerk barely looks up from his television when I check in under my own last name.
“Wi-Fi info’s on the card,” he says, sliding it toward me. “Breakfast is a joke, so hit the diner.”
“Thanks,” I say.
My room door sticks before it opens. Inside, the air is cool and smells like bleach trying to cover cigarette smoke. The bedspread is patterned with big burgundy flowers that don’t exist in nature. A tiny table faces a bolted-down television. No cameras that I can see, though that thought means less than it should now.
I set my bag on the chair, check the lock twice, and text Riley the room number.
She knocks ten minutes later. I crack the door and peer through the chain. Her face fills the gap, pale under a beanie, eyes sharp.
“Nice place,” she says when I let her in. “Very witness-protection chic.”
“Don’t knock it,” I say. “At least no one here pretends this is a sanctuary.”
She glances around, taking everything in—the bed, the bathroom door, the sightlines to the parking lot.
“You okay?” she asks.
I laugh once, short.
“Define okay,” I say. “Evelyn planted her bracelet in my bag last night. Staff ‘found’ it. Daniel asked if I took it. The therapist’s notes. The surveillance cabinet. I am three narrative beats away from a concerned petition for involuntary evaluation.”
Riley’s jaw clenches.
“She moved faster than I thought,” she says. “Good thing you moved faster than that.”
I flop onto the bed, the mattress springs groaning under me.
“Tell me you brought good news,” I say. “Or at least snacks.”
She digs into her messenger bag and pulls out a crinkling paper bag and a candy bar.
“I brought fries from the diner,” she says. “And salt.” She tosses the bag onto the bed. “And this.”
From the bottom of the bag, she pulls a folded printout and hands it to me. It’s a local calendar page, circled in red pen.
“What am I looking at?” I ask.
“Next major Mercer performance,” she says. “The annual gala. ‘Harbor Glen Memorial and the Mercer Foundation present: Light the Harbor, Heal the Future.’”
My skin prickles.
“They named a gala after their boat parade?”
“They like to recycle branding,” she says. “Read the blurb.”
I read aloud: “‘Honoring Evelyn Hart Mercer with the Lifetime Impact on Families Award for her decades of service to at-risk mothers and children.’”
My mouth tastes like ash.
“Of course they are,” I say.
Riley drops onto the other side of the bed and grabs the remote. “There’s more,” she says. “Local news has been running spots about it all week.”
She flicks through channels until the familiar jingle of Harbor News Tonight plays. The screen cuts to a shot of the hospital at dusk, lights glowing, the Mercer crest huge on a banner above the entrance. The anchor smiles with practiced warmth.
“Big night coming up for Harbor Glen,” she says. “The Mercer Foundation is once again hosting its winter gala, a highlight of our town’s social calendar and a major fundraiser for programs that support women and children across the peninsula.”
The image shifts to a pre-recorded interview. Evelyn sits in a tasteful armchair in what I recognize as one of the hospital lounges, a soft-focus mural of waves behind her. She wears the bracelet that was in my bag last night, stones flashing under studio lights.
“At the end of the day, this work is about love,” she tells the camera. “About making sure no child falls through the cracks, no mother has to choose between safety and shame. We’re honored that the community trusts us with that responsibility.”
My hand tightens on the edge of the bedspread until my knuckles ache.
“She’s good,” Riley says quietly. “She believes it, in her own way. That’s what makes her dangerous.”
The segment cuts to footage of last year’s Light the Harbor parade: yachts strung with lights, Mercer crest banners fluttering in the cold air, Evelyn and Robert waving from the top deck of their boat while the town watches from the docks and notes who stands beside them. Then back to the anchor.
“Tickets for the gala are already waitlisted,” the anchor says. “Proceeds will support expanded services in the Mercer Foundation Wing.”
Riley mutes the TV.
“That room,” she says, nodding toward the screen frozen on Evelyn’s smile. “Full of donors, press, people who still believe that crest equals salvation. It’s a fortress and a stage at the same time.”
I stare at Evelyn’s frozen face, the familiar tilt of her head, the eyes that see through walls.
“If I walk back into that fortress right now,” I say, “she can have me escorted out in handcuffs or in restraints, and everyone in that room will nod and say they’re relieved someone finally got me help.”
“Yeah,” Riley says. “So we don’t go back on her terms.”
I drag my gaze away from the screen and look at her.
“Then on whose?” I ask.
Riley leans back against the headboard, expression sharpening into something like strategy.
“The gala is a pressure point,” she says. “She’s already built momentum. Media, donors, award. That’s when reputations glow brightest—and crack fastest. We use it. We time what we have to collide with what she thinks she owns.”
My heart ticks faster.
“You mean…” I swallow. “You mean we walk into her favorite room and light a match.”
“Only if we’re ready,” Riley says. “Only if we’ve got enough that even Harbor Glen’s donor walls can’t absorb the blast.”
The motel heater rattles to life, blowing warm air that smells faintly of dust over our frozen TV queen. Outside, a truck rumbles past on the highway, heading somewhere that doesn’t know or care about the Mercer name.
“We have one clock counting down to the gala,” I say. “And another clock counting down to whichever story she finishes first: philanthropic saint or crazy, thieving daughter-in-law.”
I look back at the screen, at the smile that has charmed an entire peninsula into treating the Mercers’ version of love as law.
The question burning the back of my throat is no longer whether I can escape the estate for a few days.
It is whether I can stay gone long enough to turn that perfectly lit gala into the place where Evelyn’s wave crest finally breaks—and whether, when that moment comes, I will walk through those doors beside Riley as a liability in Evelyn’s narrative or as the one person in the room who refuses to let her rewrite stolen lives as charity.